I’m pissed at God, but tell me who has not been, and because I dream, my skull surfs in torrents
Do not tell me what I was to redraw that cold war face, to see a woman of what I bleed
It would always end this way.
In a dream be it my monster in the eyrie of leave-taking be it my death
I don’t know whose granting wishes these days Some sorry self-elect, Maybe no one, maybe God.