I bought a book of his poems awhile back, but I finally opened it the other day. This was the first one, and I sort of can't get enough of it. It doesn't exactly evoke appealing images, but I think it's how I feel right now. Not that I want to suck on anyone's withered breast.
To the Reader
Stupidity and meanness, error, vice,
Inhabit and obsess us every one.
As for remorse, we find it rather fun:
We nourish it, as beggars feed their lice.
Repentance gets us nowhere: our sins cling.
Confession seems a handsome gesture - then
We find we're on the muddy path again.
A few cheap tears can't pay for everything.
Evil is like a pillow. Lay your head
On its echantments: Satan Trismegist
Rocks you alseep, that subtle alchemist,
Turning your golden penance into lead.
The Devil holds the strings, and moves them well.
Nothing's too ugly for us: we don't flinch
From stink or darkness. Inch by reeking inch.
One step per day, we're on our way to Hell.
To kiss and chew an old tart's withered breast
Is all we can afford. Debauchery,
Our only pleasure,we take furtively,
Squeezing it like an orange to the last.
A million devils guzzle in our brain,
Chewing like worms. Each time we take a breath
It bubbles through our flooded lungs, and Death
Gives a choked cry; we drown, then breathe again.
On the drag canvas of our destiny
The lovely patterns made by hate, disgrace,
Rape, dagger, poison, sward, have left no trace.
The reason is, we are too cowardly.
Our vices are a zoo. They hiss and crawl,
They bark and yell: dogs, crocodiles and apes,
Clawing and grunting: writhing and sliding shapes,
Jackals and vultures. But amoungst them all
The very worst, consumed with quiet scorn
Makes no grand gestures, never screams, but can
Turn towns to rubble, make a mock of man,
Swallow the world in one enourmous yawn.
His name is Boredom. He sniffs, wipes his eye,
Puffs on his pipe, and dreams of hangings. You
Know this dear monster, reader. Yes you do,
Admit it. We are brothers, you and I.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
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