yes, yes? I asked.
she’s young and pretty, she said.
and? I asked.
she hated your
guts.
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and the sun wields mercy
and the jets whip across its sightand rockets leap like toads,and the boys get out the mapsand pin-cushion the moon,old green cheese,no life there but too much on earth:our unwashed India boyscrossing their legs,playing pipes,starving with sucked in bellies,watching the snakes volutelike beautiful women in the hungry air;the rockets leap,the rockets leap like hares,clearing clump…
when I look back now
herI feel shame that I was soinnocent,but I must sayshe did match me drink fordrink,and I realized that her lifeher feelings for thingshad been ruinedalong the wayand that I was no mare than atemporarycompanion;she was ten years olderand mortally hurt by the pastand the present;she treated me badly:desertion, othermen;she brought me immensepain,continually;s he lied, stole;there…
here I am
my mouthopenandI can’t even saymama,andthe dogs run by and stop and pisson my stone; I get it allexcept the sunand my suit is lookingbadand yesterdaythe last of my leftarm gonevery little left, all harp-likewithout music.at least a drunkin bed with a cigarettemight cause 5 fireengines and33 men.I can’tdoanything.but p.s. – Hector Richmond in the nexttomb…
I was always a natural slob
in undershirt (stained, ofcourse) (and with cigaretteholes)shoes offbeerbottle in handtrying to shake off adifficult night, say with awoman still aroundwalking the floorcomplaining about this andthat,and I’d work up abelch and say, ‘HEY, YOU DON’TLIKE IT? THEN GET YOUR ASSOUT OF HERE!’I really loved myself, Ireally loved my slob-self, andthey seemed to also:always leavingbut almostalwayscomingback.
Van Gogh writing his brother for paints
Celine going broke as a doctor of medicinethe impossibility of being humanVillon expelled from Paris for being a thiefFaulkner drunk in the gutters of his townthe impossibility of being humanBurroughs killing his wife with a gunMailer stabbing histhe impossibility of being humanMaupassant going mad in a rowboatDostoyevsky lined up against a wall to be shotCrane…
there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
and the best at murder are those who preach against itand the best at hate are those who preach loveand the best at war finally are those who preach peacethose who preach god, need godthose who preach peace do not have peacethose who preach peace do not have lovebeware the preachersbeware the knowersbeware those who…