That’s how it goes.
The crowd-walker has arrived,
making his way on the heads of the masses,
his wooden steps echoing on their skulls,
and already the shaking hands
pour out from their sleeves,
from two, seven, thirty sleeves,
broken necks crawl out of collars,
the bacchants grow luminescent,
words are shredded on mute sandpaper,
blood soaks into socks.

He arrives like a bull with ten testes,
like a muscular mighty moleworm
shining with silvery mucus,
and we know no spells
against moleworms.
And in our heads, spermias
of all future crowd-walkers echo.

That’s how it goes.
Because man’s no career.
Moleworms are.