The silk road into Macclesfield,
These sundry stops, and stinks,
This rising into fury
The sinking into think.
This edge of trees and wildings
This glazing of the sun
The spreading stench of wolverine,
Missy Moon beneath the Sun,
This stink of flesh uneaten
This rising up of love
This game of death and stillness
This sighing of the dove
The beginning of the end,
Quite destitute of love.
I crawl into meagre nothingness
A disguise devoid of love.