With my last, rattling breath, I bear witness to all And to everything, With no audience but myself. From the pastel toys That spun above my head In cheap Calder pantomime -- They were there to make me laugh, But they made me cry instead. I knew that they were alien, Saw by instinct that they were Just products of a plastic defecation, Long before I had the tongue to speak. But other things they made me laugh. What things? Well what's it to you? Bits of human irony In stencil on my parents' faces -- I could see with clarity Before indeed I had the tongue to speak. To the mottled ceiling Now above my hospice/hotel bed. The tiny speck! Why must it let me know that it is blunt organic? Scurry from one crevice to another? I want to know By just whose will you pick a point to stop you speck. What nanocircuits firing? And who made them With more care perhaps than lavishing on me? Who framed, that is, Thy fearful symmetry? My eyes refuse to close. They disobey me and my jaw is slack. I am weary beyond weariness. And so I bid to you oh speck (And likewise so to you my many broken loves) A last, heart-felt, blank-stared "fare well."
Never in my life did I lend the unfortunate Dmitri Fyodorovich Karamazov (for he is unfortunate now, in any case) the sum of three thousand roubles today, or any other money, never, never! I swear to it by all that is holy in our world.
TFTD: Didn't you think I knew That you were born with the power of a locomotive, Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound? And your Chelsea suicide with no apparent motive -- You could laugh and cry in a single sound.