The butterfly flits through the open air
Tattooed eye wings beat without world care.
Though made Monarch of the open void
‘Tis as transitory as the word of Freud.
That is to say, a mere fallacy of lies
Though it has beauty, ’tis mere disguise
It is vacuous and illogical as Christ remade;
The truth is that he just decayed.
A bundle of rags in a borrowed barrow;
No saint Francis, no redeeming sparrow
Or young Sebastian or martyr’s arrow;
Just the incessant silence of the tomb,
The tomb that has become God’s womb,
In which the sounds of nothing boom.
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