(via Metafilter)

    "Triumph of the Will" (Pessoa XIII.)

A thousand paisley hymns in passive voice;
i lock my keys in the office, perchance to dream
on the job is not so swift. The happy noise

of humans breaking what was made by them.

Such alibis as vampires call the soul.
In winter, rain. Smells from nowhere. Love
even of something appalling. Light, all
this light. A thousand paisley hums to prove

the taut antithesis of consciousness

and having made our peace with fear itself
a grassy knoll in fancy dress
hazarding a broken poem for zero pelf
the mad sums yearn to prove thee
and all the blue sparks fading love thee.