Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand,
As epitaph:
He chucked up
And just cleared off,
And always the voice will
Certain you
This audacious, purifying,
Elemental move.
And they are right,
I think.
We all hate
And having to be there:
I detest my room,
It's specially-chosen junk,
The good books, the good bed,
And my life, in perfect order:
So to hear it
He walked out on the whole
Leaves me flushed and stirred,
Like Then she undid her
Or Take that you bastard;
Surely I can, if he did?
And that helps me to
Sober and industrious.
But I'd go today,
Yes, swagger the nut-strewn roads,
Crouch in the
Stubbly with goodness, if It weren't so artificial,
Such a deliberate step
To create an object:
Books; china; a
Reprehensibly perfect.