are not those that confuse and confound us, the base ideas
the basis of our cites,
the foundation of our song?
the shingles built of vile instinct,
the notes woven through feral proclivities,
all that splendid order of the Sun,
a loincloth for the waiting harlot in the parlour
the woman clad in Sun that desires the most vulgar penetration
pray be that there is Art to be found after all in ejaculation.