Crammed into packing cases, wrapped in plastic, the limbs of dismembered masculine deities are out of sight and do not call for tears. Screaming and bitching fill the olive grove and everyone is high on triviality.

The offered lips, the immaculate skin- so you prefer the smell of own-sex sweat to that of lion, do you? Well, so be it, but I am dazzled by other illusions, vision shifted into another clef.

Serial-ism occupies my thoughts and I foresee the ivy-berry trance in which the raving maenads will disjoint me because I've wept too hotly and too long. So let it be done quickly, while I dance,

my remains serving to fatten the kites, while my bare head floats singing down the stream. You will be one of the caring and sensitive; there will be many prizes to be won and enough testicled slaves in the field.