#AmericanWriters
With white frost gone And all green dreams not worth muc… After a lean day’s work Time comes round for that foul slu… Mere bruit of her takes our street
O half moon’- Half-brain, luminosity’- Negro, masked like a white, Your dark Amputations crawl and appall’-
On storm—struck deck, wind sirens… With each tilt, shock and shudder,… Cleaves forward into fury; dark as… Waves wallop, assaulting the stubb… Flayed by spray, we take the chall…
Clocks cry: stillness is a lie, my… The wheels revolve, the universe k… (Proud you halt upon the spiral st… The asteroids turn traitor in the… And planets plot with old elliptic…
I thought that I could not be hur… I thought that I must surely be impervious to suffering— immune to pain or agony.
“I shall never get you put togethe… Pieced, glued, and properly jointe… Mule—bray, pig—grunt and bawdy cac… Proceed from your great lips. It’s worse than a barnyard.
Tell me what you see in it: The pine tree like a Rorschach—bl… black against the orange light: Plant an orange pumpkin patch which at twelve will quaintly hatc…
How far is it? How far is it now? The gigantic gorilla interior Of the wheels move, they appall me… The terrible brains
But I would rather be horizontal. I am not a tree with my root in th… Sucking up minerals and motherly l… So that each March I may gleam in… Nor am I the beauty of a garden b…
The courage of the shut mouth, in… The line pink and quiet, a worm, b… There are black disks behind it, t… And the outrage of a sky, the line… The disks revolve, they ask to be…
The abstracts hover like dull ange… Nothing so vulgar as a nose or an… Bossing the ethereal blanks of the… Their whiteness bears no relation… Snow, chalk or suchlike. They’re
What is this, behind this veil, is… It is shimmering, has it breasts,… I am sure it is unique, I am sure… When I am quiet at my cooking I f… ‘Is this the one I am too appear…
From Water-Tower Hill to the bri… The shingle booms, bickering under The sea’s collapse. Snowcakes break and welter. This… The gritted wave leaps
Summer grows old, cold—blooded mot… The insects are scant, skinny. In these palustral homes we only Croak and wither. Mornings dissipate in somnolence.
I’m a riddle in nine syllables, An elephant, a ponderous house, A melon strolling on two tendrils. O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers! This loaf’s big with its yeasty ri…