My wife and I have asked a crowd of
To come and waste their time and ours:
You'd care to join us?
In a pig's arse, friend.
Day comes to an end.
The gas fire breathes, the trees are darkly swayed.
And so Dear Warlock-Williams:
I'm afraid—Funny how hard it is to be alone.
I could spend half my evenings, if I wanted,
Holding a glass of washing sherry,
Over to catch the drivel of some
Who's read nothing but Which;
Just think of all the spare time that has
Straight into nothingness by being
With forks and faces, rather than
Under a lamp, hearing the noise of wind,
And looking out to see the moon
To an air-sharpened blade.
A life, and yet how sternly it's
All solitude is selfish.
No one
Believes the hermit with his gown and
Talking to God (who's gone too); the big
Is to have people nice to you, which
Doing it back somehow.
Virtue is social.
Are, then, these
Playing at goodness, like going to church?
Something that bores us, something we don't do well(Asking that ass about his fool research)But try to feel, because, however crudely,
It shows us what should be?
Too subtle, that.
Too decent, too.
Oh hell,
Only the young can be alone freely.
The time is shorter now for company,
And sitting by a lamp more often
Not peace, but other things.
Beyond the light stand failure and
Whispering Dear Warlock-Williams:
Why, of course—
