more sketches


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.



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



I know,

the metaphysic is





i begin here

to understand and there

end it                    all.



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.



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