from swerve of shaw to bend of bray
(On March 15th 20118, I was two days away from the delirium of sepsis (i was gone for a week) and I wrote this poem.The sort of premonition you don't need, or want!)
“In the name of Annah the Allmaziful, the Everliving, the Bringer of Plurabilities, haloed be her eve, her singtime sung, her rill be run, unhemmed as it is uneven!”
― James Joyce, Finnegans Wake*
catch my death, damp
it's an English disease
travelling from heat to cold
the melody's the same
runs, rills through culture, religion, sexual orientation,
mealy-mouthed middle-stump moaning means nothing to me.
people volunteer to eat shit,, eat, shit, they do,
just like that, they're that stupid,
put a gun in his hands
whatta yer got?
a funny hat
no smiles, no men o’pause, just the bare necessities::
freeze, knees, groan, be, alone
I say these words into this barely-mystic air
that is always, and forever, everywhere.
we see through this bare air and miss everything.
Like in one of Solz’s gulags, it’s a European thing,
every songbird says,
get the wrong signs, get so quickly out of line,
a triangle appears, an equation
-b + or — sq root of b2–4ac/2b
just one way to pray.
a guilt for my best friend
world without end,
keep him warm, in his grave.
nothing stops this inclement shivering inside
by all means, there’s worse to come,
sans teeth, sans fun, sans everything.