Claustrophobia! Bullshit! Air! Air! Give us air! Is there an antidote to this mustard gas of domestic spiritism?
Can we ever recover that beach at Molivos when
the wave sank back
the head rolled on the beach
I lifted it and let it down
on my torn neck
I looked at the sea and the night
out of the eyes
of one who gave himself
to the knives of drunken love
so calm to know I was at last
YOUR COMPLETED MONSTER, LORD
or the deep-throated birds in the small courtyard, the camp bed, the freedom of the suede-soft White Notebook of 1971
there he goes
with his fear of death
there he goes
with his pot belly
past the small cafés
on the 21st of April Street
there he goes
accompanied by music
from the movie
and don’t describe the trees
don’t bother to mention the stars
there he goes
his own man at last
past the pebble beach
past the ones he did not speak to
the ones he did not sleep with
you remember him perhaps
as an admirer of cats
a vessel of monstrous longing
an elegiac connoisseur of islands
there he goes
with his mind on cunt
on cunt only
heart money attention talent art
tuned entirely to cunt
and that’s where he’s going
exactly where he’s going
a beautiful spectacle
a man who knows where he’s going
Can we put down that wedding ring from Jerusalem, the one with the heavy little silver house built on it? Can we recover
the course that jerks her upward
seized prisoner of the stars
her buttocks relax in my hands
like meat freshly killed