there is GRASS on the PAMPA and there is OILin the CRANKCASE. Our CAT purrs under her FURas if the CALENDAR would NEVER cease. I have ACCESSto the PERSONAL, it is the AIR I TAKE, through WHICHmy two ARMS WAVE. Farther AWAY, FACES, armies of WORDS,DIM fact and fancy. Bacon, an OLD june,MEMORY DISQUALIFIES itself. Though it may EMERGEas a DROP of longing on my TONGUE. From thisLIVING AXIS, I am ABLE to SPEAK without DYING.
The shape of hishead is not the shapeof the world. It satisfies itselfthere.Have some grapes. Twobreasts. Breathing behind them. Shipsjust back out. He makesthe round in his head.
Thoughts sandwich with pure lust and beauty's in action when the beasts attempt stasis. Thorns are allowed to exist. The green beans steaming are themselves cousin to the good news they've been trying to give away. And whose body doesn't tremble with good night kisses, pebble relaxation confronting the amoeboid calendar.The pictures we've been showing one another, the photographs of large numbers of people serve no purpose. As if we weren't private enough already. Too sensitive to the cut of our own diaries to bask in the blank pages. Let me lead you gently behind your next thought.
Take a hold nowOn the silver handles here,Six silver handles,One for each of his old pals.Take holdAnd lift him down the stairs.Put him on the rollersOver the floor of the hearse.Take him on the last haul,To the cold straight house.The level even house,To the last house of all.The dead say nothingAnd the dead know muchAnd the dead hold under their tonguesA locked-up story.
I am not the black cat.There were four of us;my grandmother,a black cat,a myth,and I.My grandmother oftentold us a myth.When you are ill, she said,if a black catcomes and sits on your bedit means that youwill die soon.I was only six,seriously ill.Our black cat
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,Who held the end was Death. He opens eyesSlowly, to one long livid oozing plainClosed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;And waits; and once in timeless sick surmiseThrough the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speckOf moveless horror; an Immortal OneCleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a flyFast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.I thought when love for you died, I should die.It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.