my naked bees are stinging knees and never dream more kind
the honey, black... they lack the knack of natural acts. they pine.
they surly fume. they bark at doom and dangle chintz and fiend,
they serve a nerve as raw as words that pinch a finch’s wings.

my wherewithal, with all your spots, are not my dots; but sod.
by all accounts, it counts for naught...but sounds a lot like god.
the absent one. the ubermensch. the lint i sent you, cracked !
a dagger’s mind. a hellish hive of worse than curse. a laugh !

la mort, petit. du jour, for sure the purest night to bleak... the white !
the eye:; it seeks to sink at least a league beneath the widening gyre !
fie !  and thunder pun my plums
of glumful dungeons, one by none.
and glory wrack my sycophants.

and ransom damage done and done