Xaipe: Seventy-One Poems
#1950 #Xaipe
in Just- spring when the world is mud… luscious the little lame baloonman whistles far and wee
Paris;this April sunset completel… utters serenely silently a cathedr… before whose upward lean magnifice… the streets turn young with rain, spiral acres of bloated rose
notice the convulsed orange inch o… perching on this silver minute of… We’ll choose the way to the forest… to you,white town whose spires sof… Will take the houseless wisping ru…
after five times the poem of thy remembrance surprises with refrain of unreasoning summer
O Thou to whom the musical white… offers her lily inextinguishable, taught by thy tremulous grace brav… Implacable death’s mysteriously sa… rob from her redolent shoulders,
a kike is the most dangerous machine as yet invented by even yankee ingenu ity(out of a jew a few dead dollars and some twisted laws…
a thing most new complete fragile… which wholly trembling memory unde… —your kiss,the little pushings of… my body sorry when the minute moon is a remarkable splinter in the qu…
purer than purest pure whisper of a whisper so(big with innocence) forgivingly a once of eager glory, no
III Spring is like a perhaps hand (which comes carefully out of Nowhere)arranging a window, into which people look(w…
the poem her belly marched through… one army. From her nostrils to h… she smelled of silence. The insp… of her glad leg pulled into a sole… my separate lusts
it is funny, you will be dead some… By you the mouth hair eyes,and i m… the unique and nervously obscene need;it’s funny. They will all be… knead of lustfulhunched deeplytopl…
in the rain- darkness, the sunset being sheathed i sit and think of you the holy
i’ll tell you a dream i had once i… a bar the bar was made of brass ha… lying on the bar it was cOOl i di… Hot and the bar was COOl
gee i like to think of dead it mea… since darker than little round wat… too cool to be crooked and it’s to… and thick and it loves, every ol… jackknives and kittens and pennies…
the bed is not very big a sufficient pillow shoveling her small manure-shaped head one sheet on which distinctly wags at times the weary twig