Tell them that I am not home.

Tell them that I am not home. Intransitively. If they demand an abject object, tell them that I am a rascal. If they demand complement, tell them that it was fixed in the catalyzer enzymes of my sordidness. If they nevertheless ask where I went, answer that I left aquaring Februaries of vagrancy my life away. I am not for the professors nor for their students, tiresome phone calls or false or true love declarations, for men stuned of emotions or women radiating of peacefulness, for children crying with hunger or crying out of pain, for their afflicted parents covered by the mantle of misfortune and re-covered by the canopy of misery, for bankers, scoundrels, saints, speculators, agitators, pacifists, beggars, lottery prizes, automobiles (of the year, of the month, of the day, of the hour or the minute), helpful friends or fearless enemies with affectations of friendships, for silver moonlights or elaborated drinks with the nectar of the Olimpo gods, for gentlemen, rotters, noblemen, or rascals like me, for the Pope, for the bishop, for the priest and for all the clergy, for Dalai Lama in his red-orange vestments and for the dalai mud dressed with moss green, for the ones crazy of passion or of madness itself, for the drunks, for the drunkards of ambitions and the sobers consumed by the flames of the burning waters of obligatory abstinence, for the most shameless whore or for the nuns covered from top to toe by the habit of charity, for ladies dis or for lords give, for princes, or for ragamuffins, for immaculate beings smelling sandal, or lazars exhaling in life the stenches of cadaveric decomposition. Tell "Mr." nobody that I am not home. Tell everybody, except Mrs. death.