Feel free to just listen, or listen as you read!
(As a man grows older…)
Cold turn my putty blue
and let me leave
my sorry self-appointed imposition
state of Senilità,
this shadow of my footstep fear
Frankenstein of my conceit
of whom I aped in sweeter note
as the satire sword
when I was prentice of this night.
Tis the bruise upon my apple fallen,
Brutus to my Caesar,
the malformed child made conscious.
And by my expertise
I have the life-long-game of chess
whose colours now reveal
no substance fiction
belly laughing shallow truth.
All my fear is Senilità
a thousand-tickling tales of doubt
the smallest part of virile statement
easy come by.
The battery of baseless facts that made me man
are the powdered leaves
of a selfish summer.
Now the water of my close
the question of you do after death
has burnt this mess of pottage
and shaped me as the begging bowl.
You shame of all the Y man sought
and the weeping priest
mortal made immortal bishop,
Pharisee of double mean-less vision.
To the monastery of children
there confess with ease
nonchalance of being server
to the weeping priest
of being Senilità.
Here by the speak of unripe fact
sick the swelling puffing yeast
the husk of all your learning
home to Babel
and name it
grandeur of the Pharisee.
Let your toothless cringing face
be the symbolled skull
cross-boned school of level thought
and one horizon.
I cannot as tears
as negative I am
the six-aged one life yes man
cry wolf again,
charge the greater part of me
I be the autumn of the shortest summer
making where to start
my cyclopaedic book of error.