Broken bricks and distant singers

[EileenGreay]

A sepulchral dampness swims     over my
    Naked flesh.     The gloom of doom – — – it. It -
Looms. Fistfuls of moths beat their         silent semiquavers
Against my brow;
I low like a doleful cow.     The stench of beef,
    Raw, and cut and sore
Pulls     at       me from the       door.

The moon in this room is blue or, perhaps, brown
And leers like a clown
    Or round tomb. The walls, which are taller
Than those of Troy or Carthage, push and pull
    Snap and splinter;
I tap; there’s a hole; now a sphincter.

My ears are funnels or sieves which hear
  Valhalla and Brünnhilde’s     infernal screeches
    As incineration dissolves         into inebriation.
      Tell me, woman, of what do you sing? Do you sing
        Of     the river and the
    Fall     from grace
To damnation?     I sing too.
    Of broken bricks and
Distant singers.

Note: unfortunately I seem unable to post this with my original lineation and use of blank space, which, I feel, add much sense to the poem. Apologies for any issues which might be clarified by a sense of the poem as shape.

i had a look at the original and tried to emulate the layout, if you click on edit you'll see how it's done and be able to alter as needed/mod