Go to Hell in that handbasket of your own devising, then, pass outwith my mind, my ken and turn those red-rimmed eyes to your horizons good for you all hot and fevered filled with people ill and yellow sniggering, their cantilevered brains too hot obsessed to read the signs aright, arrest their course, and swim against the tide the mark of night descending to extinguish those dim hordes of basketcases mid-stream heading rapids ignoring fords.next poem