It's better this way--
Infinitely gracious through some colossal mistake of philosophy,
Fists bleeding crumbs and spent cartridges but no, not here
Not even heaped in trembling awful coarse and remnant parts
So I gulp my spent errors - hid in the corner cloaked and dripping,
All chin-slicked rivers and dead raw mouthfuls my
Open-jaw distention retching light and dread obscenity.
And already I'm done - the earth is too rich and your face is too much
And my skull is not a crown
And my eyes are not a crown and
My fingers, stretched in nets of elegant blue recurve all casual magnetism
Slow repose and measured coronas of flesh and revelled refraction
But no, still not a crown
Not even down here where the rainclouds cough
And as I lift my face and tongue all wrapped all very strange in
Feathers and claws and elegant uniforms still no still no ah! here there's nothing.
But the maps are not a science and never you promised me never no
Never, not even as we stretched and turned in revelled liquid bursts of languid sanity.
My skull's a cracked chariot, never not a crown
And it never could it hold, not even for a moment,
Even a broken-down notion of you.