Yeah, here's another love song to a friend of mine
who committed suicide.
I started to fake it and make pretend that it was to a woman.
But it was really to a man.
So it goes like this.
"The Butcher!
What a Shock!"
The epigraph is, we have been well and truly had, Pascal.
What a jewel the view is from the furnished room,
flashing with red, green, and orange traffic lights--
That's dancing!, and it sings as a general sound.
What a crystal the air is, metrical
in structure clear in the open-work,
burning at its joints, and moving in its body
is ordered everywhere as forces products in pure chance.
What an honor to be in it, even as a flaw, Oh fracture
of a tree in solid quartz!
But I had to look away and down the open trap-door
in the center of the room, into the cellar hole where
I have not yet fallen.
The man-faced bat-winged worm looked up
from his work on my love's corpse falling,
his grin foul with his lights, and said,
"So what?, Faller, I come in the works of your love's wounds,
foaming.
My sperm are his worms.
Love, I have known you in your change from spring to garbage,
so I ask you.
Why is the world so beautiful?
It has to be all sex to make us want it here
against the worm's brief--
I am the root and teeth.
What you dream I am.
You are the meat.
Run if you can."
So-- Beget sons against death.
Get real estate against decay, and praise physical glory!--
The stars above the roof are there
as God's dust at the center of this sphere whose
edge is nowhere.
That poem is very literary.
And the last quatrain comes from Pascal.
Quatrain before that comes from somebody else.
But I didn't need to trouble you with that, I guess.