Madame Perreire rings the bell, the house incomplete
the house falling down. I'd like to know what this room's about -
the cine showing nude after two-tone nude
desperately wanting something more, than this stiff
collateral, the thing that Madame banks on, that percentage
lying thickly on the floor, near the door, archly winking.
I got bruises, and one thing is, I don't like this any more -
White and spiritous, like white rain, white noise
white horses, white whores, oh I like you better;
ripped white paper, my nails are bloody, sore
from writing, writing till you come knocking
ghosting in my Elsinore.