more sketches

I

was i watching tv

when you drew me

nothing to do or too

tired to do it?

 

the grey

hairs tho are signs,

i think, of intelligence;

and my tight lips,

flaccid skin, i-brow-

s serious: i say,

 

from the grave

countenance, i was

listening to the darkling

strings of Shostakovich.

 

II

it’s weird and i have my own special sickness

which is not of the flesh alone as it is

with animals of the paradisal Garden

copulant in Spring; or in

 

the mind of celestial-

s which are not

real but exist as Idea

in the Mind which is

real.

 

I know,

the metaphysic is

basic,

pages

torn.

 

i begin here

to understand and there

end it                    all.

 

III

i have been humble and gracious,

giving and i have tried

to be humble, gracious

and giving.

 

i can’t abide the flesh

and stench of ideas;

the otherness of people.

 

i say Good Morning and don’t mean it.

en mass these guys smile but in-

side stiff like the wood that was

hacked to form communities,

 

burnt to ward off spirits, cold winds

that hailed from the North.

 

i have the Form,

like the African

at Oxford, of

the regular

Suit, and shoes

of black leather.

 

but i’m no mother-

fucking joe, soft skin in-

side hard like, Bone.

 

i have the stern exo-

skeleton; the uniformed

European who affects

to know no English.

 

21/2/16

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