"I Have Certain Knowledge" (Pessoa XXXII.)

Nightly the realm of otherness appears,
homeland & deconstruction. Cardboard is
the scenery; swerving Sxwaixwe skidmarks hears
on the winds of passage. Sluggish methane seas [sees]
where a jellyfish the size of a house still floats. You touch
the wall of sleep which filleth, foldeth all
cerulean, svelte, too filch to story such
at the caltrops muezzin's call.

Swirl the leaves therefrom. What does it mean
to outlive one's matrix? What's undergone
to survive this shipwreck? Outré mien
among the tall gray lozenges sans explanation
in your heart a palpable hit,
in your mailbox Gog and Magog's writ.


Wit. For most of human history, jokes ending in mutilation have been the very pinnacle of wit.
In some places they still are.