Let us have madness openly
O men Of my generation
Let us follow The footsteps of this slaughtered age: See it trail across Time's dim land Into the closed house of eternity With the noise that dying has, With the face that dead things we...
The Dove walks with sticky
Upon the green crowns of the almond tree,
Its feathers smeared over with
Like
Speak softly; sun going
Out of sight
Come near me now
Dear dying fall of wings as birdscomplain against the gathering dark…Exaggerate the green blood in grass;the music of leaves scraping space;
I believe that a young
Is standing in a circle of
In the other side of the sky
In a little while I must carry her the
Tiny green birds skate over the surface of the room
A naked girl prepares a basin with steaming water,
And in the corner away from the hearth, the red
Of an up-ended chariot slowly turn
Man-dirt and stomachs that the sea unloads; rockets of quick lice crawling inland, planting their damn flags, putting their malethings in any hole that will stand still, yapping bloody murder while they slice off each other’s heads, spewing themse...
We must be slow and delicate; return the policeman's stare with some esteem, remember this is not a shadow play of doves and geese but this is now the time to write it down, record the words— I mean we should have left some pride of youth and not ...
Wherever the dead are there they are
Nothing more
But you and I can
To see angels in the meadowgrass that
Apply for the position (I've forgotten now for what) I had to marry the Second Mayor's daughter by twelve noon
The order arrived three minutes of
I already had a wife; the Second Mayor was childless: but I did it
Next they told me t...
Be music, night,
That her sleep may go Where angels have their pale tall choirs Be a hand, sea,
That her dreams may watch Thy guidesman touching the green flesh of the world Be a voice, sky,
That her beauties may be counted And the ...
The old guy put down his beer
Son, he said, (and a girl came over to the table where we were: asked us by Jack Christ to buy her a drink
) Son,
I am going to tell you something The like of which nobody was ever told
In the footsteps of the walking
Sky's prophetic chickens weave their cloth of
And hillsides lift green wings in somber journeying
Night in his soft haste bumps on the shoulders of the