Twenty-four years

Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes. / (Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.) / In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor / Sewing a shroud for a journey / By the light of the meat-eating sun. / Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun, / With my red veins full of money, / In the final direction of the elementary town / I advance for as long as forever is.