Tuesday, December 22, 2015

DEATHBED EDITION

Devouring Homer,
Whitman,
Christ!—was never enough, 

either to crush their hunger to be clever
or to quench the thirsty 
doubt of their questioning.

And so—as of now
and hereafter, your self 
and your soul would like to announce:

they are giving up,
and have decided to just lay down
and start making love to each other;

taking turns, one
nourishing the other, strictly 
on rhythm—

and achieving, at last, via this
tacit and fictive music—
complete satisfaction.

That is—
that perfect faith
which is utterly inexpressible,

but which is sort of like 
how—the edge of the water
is more than 

the end of the land; it is also
the end of a man, and spells
the end of all his words.

And it seems perverse 
at first, but such
are the little deaths 

we never even realize
we needed.
Until after 

we've already found ourselves there—dumb
and so ready
to fuck.

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