Enclosed encased embraced by his final lover, a black sarcophagus
(coiled excremental lump stinking in the marble mausoleum,
death cocoon),
the Bird King whitens to a tight grin.

Piss-yellow eyes bulge in a disbelieving skull.

And he dreams,
despite his death he dreams
(no rest, not even now, the poor sod, just look at him),

seeing cities burning with advertisements under the cool yoke of skyscrapers in sharp suits, the cattle of humanity branded, mouths twisted in the mesmerised monotony of a day a week a year a lifetime, guns piling up in ruined doorways, the sneer of the victor, mountains of rubbish, valleys of filth

hearing the sweet fuzz of moaning guitars, lunatic siren songs, a million marching feet, waves breaking on rubble shores, words whispered held in the mind on the skin I want to fuck you I want to fuck you, the cracking towers of Ilium, baying donkeys or people, something soft and small and snuffling hardly in the world at all hardly making a sound

smelling burning tyres, the bitter musk of her sex, petrol, lavender curling in the hair of a dotty old woman, tight lipped mouthwash, the scent of Mondays, hot damp tarmac after the squall, the fetor of something terrible and rotten, sweet shops, fireworks and wonder

tasting blood, champagne, Coca Cola, a brittle bitter thing, batteries, sawdust, contaminated water, his own sordid juices, sour life, sweet sleep

feeling her smooth heat, moistness, throbbing, a ticking a ticking a ticking, the delicious pang of his final convulsion

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