Twenty-Four Years

Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes. 

(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave ln labour.) 

In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor 

Sewing a shroud for a journey 

By the light of the meat-eating sun. 

Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun, 

With my red veins full of money, 

In the final direction of the elementary town 

I advance for as long as forever is.