TT: "Thus I turn my back"
1 day ago
So It Is Not With Me As With That Damn Muse
like an amateur
Leaving me alone
I can tell you now
when you sat naked
on the edge of my lips
how good it all felt,
maybe I shouldn't
have told you
to shut up.
My works charm, taken verse by stinging verse.
Can they, collected in a book, seem worse?
Your pubic hair you trim to please your lass.
For whom do you so neatly groom your ass?
You call your cock "The High," to make men stare.
"-And Mighty" I'll call mine, to form a pair.
When drunk, she can't remember what she did?
Same as when sober - sucks dick at first bid.
He was a moral dwarf in a body as
solid as ice. Everywhere he looked
he felt fear and
evasion. No notice
no location bore any resemblance to the true
form of these cinders:
The bricklayer's arms
are the imperfect extension
of the bricklayer's sight.
No sea contains them, no
forest is as deep or sky as
boundless as the bounded
continent of the bricklayer's
arms. The bricklayers arms
signify nothing, but never cease
to mean. Even the smallest
grain of sand tunes itself
to their contours. *
*Accountant's Note: part of line is left out as it forms a new statement
War is the first result of scoundrels.
War is the legitimate right of the powerless to resist the violence of the powerful.
War is delusion just as peace is imaginary.
'E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
'E put me safe inside,
An' just before 'e died,
'I 'ope you liked your drink,' sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet 'im later on
At the place where 'e is gone-
Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
'E'll be squattin' on the coals
Givin' drink to poor damned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I've belted you and flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din.
I have kept the same furies, though my domestic rage
is illogical, diabetic, with no lessening love
though my hand trembles wildly, but not over this page.
-from "The Sweet Life Cafe", a portion of "In The Village" from White Egrets
Then one would be terribly injured, one lose a leg
to rum and diabetes. You would watch him shrink
into his nickname, not too proud to beg,
who would roar like a lorry revving in the prime of his drink.