Daydreaming I will feel the coolness on my feet.
I will let the wind bathe my bare head.
I will not speak, I will have no thoughts:
But infinite love will mount in my soul;
And I will go far, far off, like a gypsy,
Through the country side-joyous as if I were with a woman.
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I.
Problems put by, the inevitable descent of heavenand the visit of memories and the assemblyof rhythms occupy the house,the head and the world of the spirit. —A horse scampers off on the suburban track,and along the tilled fields and woodlands,pervaded by the carbonic plague.A miserable woman of drama, somewhere in the world,sighs for improbable desertions.Desperados…
As I drifted on a river I could not control,
They were captured by howling IndiansWho nailed them naked to coloured posts.I cared no more for other boats or cargoes:Flemish wheat or English cottons, all were goneWhen my bargemen could no longer haul meI forgot about everything and drifted on.Amid the fury of the loudly chopping tidesLast winter, deaf as a child’s dark night,Ah, how…
The poor omnibus driver under the tin canopy,
follows his heavy omnibus along the left bank,and from his inflated groin thrusts away the moneybag.And while [in the] soft shadowwhere there are policemen,the respectable interior of the bus looks at the moonin the deep sky rockingamong its green cotton wool,in spite of the Edictand the still delicate hour,and the fact that the bus isreturning…
Black A, white E, red I, green U, blue O – vowels,
A, black belt, hairy with burst flies,Bumbling and buzzing over stinking cruelties,Pits of night; E, candour of sand pavilions,High glacial spears, white kings, trembling QueenAnne’s lace;I, bloody spittle, laughter dribbling from a faceIn wild denial or in anger, vermilions;U,…divine movement of viridian seas,Peace of pastures animal-strewn, peace of calm linesDrawn on foreheads worn with heavy…
A large carved cupboard of white oak
Old people have; open, it’s kindlyshadows give off fragrances like finewine, it overflows with a jumbleof quaint frayed things: sweetyellowed linen, torn women’s clothes,faded laces, grandmother’s shawlsembroidered with griffins, children’s shirts;there must be lockets buried somewhere,locks of white or blond hair, portraitsand dried flowers whose odors minglewith the smell of apples and pears. O old-fashionedcupboard,…
A tearful tincture washes
Beneath the dribbling bushesYour raincoats lie;Pale white in private moonlight,Like round-eyed sores,Flap your scabby kneecaps apart,My ugly whores!We loved each other in those days,Ugly blue whore!We ate boiled eggsAnd weed.One night you made me a poet,Ugly blond whore.Get between my legs,I’ll whip you.I puked up your greasy hair,Ugly black whore;You tried to unstringMy guitar.Blah! Some…