April 20, 2012

the real humor of the address, the end is sure to be
attained, that of roarous fun in the roused hamlet or
mountain village which pours forth its whole popula-
tion in a swarm round the amorous orator, down to
the baby that can but just toddle and the curs that
join in the clamor, mad with ecstasy at the novelty
of some noise besides that of trees and the horrible
clamor of the grass

We talked of things but all the time we wanted each other
and finally we were silent and I knelt above your body

a closing of eyes
and falling unfalteringly
over a warm pure country and something crying

when I was a child things being hurt made me sorry
for them but it seemed the way men and women did
and we had not made the world

coming into it crying
(I wanted so not to hurt you)
and going out of it like a sudden pouring of salt

later, being tired and overflowing with tenderness
girl’s body to boy’s body lying there and wondering what it had been
we got to our feet very quietly so they would not waken
but we felt their shy sorrowful look on us as we left them alone there

All things are one thing to the earth
rayless as a blind leper Blake lies with everyman
and the fat lord sleeps beside his bastard at last
and it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t mean what we think it does,
for we two will never lie there
we shall not be there when death reaches out his sparkling hands

there are so many little dyings that it doesn’t matter which of them is death.


Kenneth Patchen, And what with the blunders…

God, ain’t that the way? Beginning to wrap my mind around the Greeks’ erotics of death. 

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