Wittgenstein's Lion (3)

says, reflecting on the skull's ipseity,

A killing arises that, while quite banal, leaves me alone,
                                                                                   happily
   that nobody knows day nor hour of--

If I expect you, you do arise ready & skinny out of the plains.
   I can't absent you from me

dead with or without me, soaked in dialogue to the end, lying
   purplish as the jacaranda

Say one word and I will tempt you to me with the paw's split
  flesh. Nothing beyond flesh

Wittgenstein's lion (2)

says, being subject to time

The field is oppressed by sky (Isn't it?) but only insofar as
  it's factual : the point, i.e. is to kill

because under the skies &interstitial palms of the times
  to move about, pass from

one light to the next, is to me a tail's dread limp because so
  bloody (as all the beings

circulating within their own cries know all too well!).
   Then I return to hot breath,

 sleep, just where I happen to be, & everywhere I go

    Unsubstitutable breath

Wittgenstein's lion (1)

says,

    I can roar and blink on four slow feet. The scared Mädchen 
   in the eye can madden like the tooth-sore and gnawed paw.

   My tufa brow!

                          But I long for quince, vulval, grown from the seed .
   I scent you, tho, and am sad for  a time,lamentably til I'm shrill and
   not a single clearing escapes, & not a single whelp

                                                                                     It's pulpous for
  a time til the calm of the head that's been mercifully gnawed and
  chawed, can rest purplish now Shuttered or thrashing, cleaving, you
                         are tired, too, thin beyond belief

  and toss me chickens, snatched in mid-air, for relief