when the bull–opens the gateway of the horse’s belly–with his horn–and sticks his snout out to the edge–listen in the deepest of all deepest holds–and with saint lucy’s eyes–to the sounds of moving vans–tight packed with picadors on ponies–cast off by a black horse–and escaping now and rising like a butterfly–the mangled belly of the mare–a little white horse–sees inside the conduit which sings as the blood dances trickling from a faucet in her breast–a circus horse–stands upright on his feet rear end decked out with blue and silver–white and blue feathers set on top atop his head–between his two ears–and a pair of hands applauding–plucks his eyes out from in front–the team of mules that block his sight–that bounce and drag–his guts along the sand–and screws the eye of the photographer–somewhere above the banquet table–and pulls the wire out–a little at a time–into the out of doors–and winds it in a ball–then draws a likeness of his face so beautiful–onto a silver plaque–that spatters–clenched fist–clean–the sun

the rat builds its nest in the eye a hundred times mended of fallen venetian blinds legs spread eagled legs up in the air there over a fatuous bed made of fire of silences fallen asleep reduced to a tattered old ragbag a corpse without redness that shouts up its dance fork and knife made of ice laid out with most scurvy intention in range of the bell that tolls forth holy wafer the bash of the hour to each wound splits open that laughs