What are you afraid of?
The shadow cabinet,
the gloomy cupboard,
the essential framework decided by the loons.
Between two levels of this game
you play each time it rains.

Your throat is sore:
the devil dwells in,
your head aches so
you wish you could unscrew it.
You feel lonely, lost and torn out.
The shores you used to love and watch roaring when you were young
are far
from these hills, and crests, and mounts, and vineyards at certain heights.

Let me repeat this once again. What are are you afraid of? Are you afraid of height?
Are you afraid of what your passions could lead you to perform?
Debilitating acts and profoundly shameful thoughts
dark images, pink images, blurred and tainted,
flesh on flesh, pricks and balls
mingled and intertwined
at dusk, at twilight
in toilets you
toy them
once
more.