all of a whiteness,
dirt pile as per
think not that you wd/ gain if their least caress
were faded from my mind
I had not loved thee half so well
Loved I not womankind”
So Salzburg reopens
lit a flame in my thought that the years
and her hair’s gone white from the loss of him
and she not yet thirty.
On her wedding day and then thus, for the next time,
at the Theatre,
. . . might have been two years later.
inside the street doors
and wd/ not have known her
undoubtedly wd/ have put in the cart)
present Mr G Scott whistling Lili Marlene
with positively less musical talent
than that of any other man of colour
whom I have ever encountered
but with bonhomie and good humour
Sleek head that saved me out of one chaos
has salmoned thru all of it.
Where are? and who will come to the surface?
And Pétain not to be murdered 14 to 13
after six hours’ discussion
Indubitably, indubitably re/ Scott
I like a certain number of shades on my landscape
as per/ “doan’ tell no one I made you that table”
or Whiteside:
“ah certainly dew lak dawgs,
ah goin’ tuh wash you”
(no, not to the author, to the canine unwilling in question)
with 8 birds on a wire
or rather on 3 wires, Mr Allingham
The new Bechstein is electric
and the lark squawk has passed out of season
whereas the sight of a good nigger is cheering
the bad’uns wont look you straight
Guard’s cap 15th century passes horsed
on horseback thru landscape
up stream to delouse and down stream for the same purpose
seaward
different lice live in different waters
some minds take pleasure in counterpoint
pleasure in counterpoint
and the later Beethoven on the new Bechstein,
for example
finds a certain concordance of size
not in the concert hall;
can that be the papal major sweatin’ it out to the bumm drum?
What Roman fort, what
“went into winter quarters”
is under us?
as the young horse whinnies against the tubas
in contending for certain values
(Janequin for example
Greek rascality
vs/ vulgarity
no sooner out of Troy
than the damn fools attacked
4 birds on 3 wires, one bird on one
the imprint of the intaglio depends
in part on what is pressed under it
the mould must hold what is poured into it language
in
discourse
what matters is
to get it across and then no more intelligent
5 of ’em now on 2;
on 3; 7 on 4
that what’s his name
and the change in writing the song books
5 on 3 sweetest fresh rose
so they have left the upper church
but the Goncourt shed certain light on the
french revolution
“paak you djeep oveh there”
the bacon-rind banner alias the Washington arms
floats over against
God bless the Constitution
and save it
“the value thereof”
that is the crux of the matter
and god damn the perverters
“Leave the Duke, go for the gold”
“in less than a geological epoch”
and the Fleet that triumphed at Salamis
ethos
Athena cd/ have done with more sex appeal
eyes grey
“Pardon me, owl”
(“Leave it, I’m not a fool.”)
but then?
“The price is three altars, multa.”
“paak you djeep oveh there.”
2 on 2
what’s the name of that bastard?
notation
3 on 3
chatterbox the yellow bird
to rest 3 months in bottle
(author)
by the two breasts
Bless my buttons, a staff car/
as if he greatly scorned hell
with 6 on 3, swallow-tails
as from the breasts of Helen, a cup of white gold
2 cups for three altars.
fecund earth
“each one in the name of its god”
mint, thyme and basil,
the young horse whinnies against the sound of the bumm band;
to that ‘gadgett,’ and to the production and the slaughter
(on both sides) in memoriam
“Hell! don’t they get a break for the whistle?”
and if the court be not the centre of learning . . .
in short the snot of pejorocracy . . .
tinsel gilded
of fat fussy old woman
and fat snorty old scallions
“half dead at the top”
My dear William B. Y. your 1/2 was too moderate
“pragmatic pig” (if goyim) will serve for 2 thirds of it
to say nothing of the investment funds
and similar ventures
small arms ’n’ chemicals
O Lynx, my love, my lovely lynx,
Keep watch over my wine pot,
Guard close my mountain still
Till the god come into this whiskey.
Manitou, god of lynxes, remember our corn.
Khardas, god of camels
what the deuce are you doing here?
I beg your pardon . . .
“Prepare to go on a journey.”
“I . . .”
“Prepare to go on a journey.”
or to count sheep in Phoenician,
How is it far if you think of it?
So they said
no, your body-guard is not the
town executioner
the executioner is not here for the moment
the fellow who rides beside your coachman
is just a cossak who executes . . .
Which being the case, her holding dear H.J.
(Mr. James, Henry) literally by the button-hole . . .
in those so consecrated surroundings
(a garden in the Temple, no less)
and saying, for once, the right thing
namely: “Dear Master”
to his checqued waistcoat,
as the fish-tails said to Odysseus, in Troy,
The moon has a swollen cheek
and when the morning sun lit up the shelves and battalions
of the West, cloud over cloud
Old Ez folded his blankets
Neither Morning nor Evening Star has suffered wrong at my hands
O Lynx, wake a satyr or Casey
shake the castagnettes of the tree nymphs,
the mountain forest is full of light
the tree-comb red-gilded
Who sleeps in the field of lynxes
in the orchard of Tree Nymphs?
(with great blue marble eyes)
“because he likes to,” the cossak)
Salazar, Scott, Dawley on sick call
Polk, Tyler, half the presidents and Calhoun
“Retaliate on the capitalists” sd/ Calhoun “of the North”
ah yes, when the ideas were clearer
debts to people in N.Y. city
and on the Hill of the Tree Nymphs
in the close garden of Venus
asleep amid serried lynxes
set wreathes on Priapus Dionysus, Hail! Aphrodite, Hail!
having root in the equities
Hail!
and you too can make 5000 dollars a year
all you have to do is to make one trip up country
then come back to Shanghai
and send in an annual report
as to the number of converts
Sweetland on sick call
mercy Lord have mercy
each under his fig tree
or with the smell of fig leaves burning
so shd/ be fire in winter
with fig wood, with cedar, and pine burrs
O Lynx keep watch on my fire.
the tradition
From Byzantium and before then
Manitou remember this fire
O lynx, keep the phylloxera from my grape vines
Bacchus, Bacchus, Rejoice, HAIL
“Eat of it not in the under world”
See that the sun or the moon bless thy eating
Persephone, Persephone, for the six seeds of an error
or that the stars bless thy eating
O Lynx, guard this orchard,
Keep from Demeter’s furrow
This fruit has a fire within it,
Pomona, Pomona
No glass is clearer than are the globes of this flame
what sea is clearer than the pomegranate body
holding the flame?
Pomona, Pomona,
Lynx, keep watch on this orchard
That is named Pomegranate
or the Pomegranate field
The sea is not clearer in azure
Nor the Sun’s daughters bringing light
Here are lynxes Here are lynxes,
Is there a sound in the forest
of pard or of tree nymph
or snake’s rattle or of leaves moving?
Aphrodite, here are lynxes
Will the scrub-oak burst into flower?
There is a rose vine in this underbrush
Red? white? No, but a colour between them
When the pomegranate is open and the light falls
half thru it
Lynx, beware of these vine-thorns
O Lynx, owl-eyed coming up from the olive yards,
Aphrodite, here are Lynxes and the clicking of snake’s rattles
There is a stir of dust from old leaves
Will you trade roses for acorns
Will lynxes eat thorn leaves?
What have you in that wine jar?
ichor, for lynxes?
Tree Nymphs and tree nymphs among lynxes;
how many? There are more under the oak trees,
We are here waiting the sun-rise
and the next sunrise
for three nights amid lynxes. For three nights
of the oak-wood
and the vines are thick in their branches
no vine lacking flower,
no lynx lacking a flower rope
no Tree Nymph minus a wine jar
this forest is named Pomegranate
O lynx, keep the edge on my cider
Keep it clear without cloud
We have lain here amid calycanthus and sword-flower
The sun’s daughters are caught in the wild rose vine
The smell of pine mingles with rose leaves
O lynx, be many
of spotted fur and sharp ears.
O lynx, have your eyes gone yellow,
with spotted fur and sharp ears?
Therein is the dance of the tree nymphs
Therein are centaurs
And now Priapus with Faunus
The Graces have brought Aphrodite
Her cell is drawn by ten leopards
O lynx, guard my vineyard
As the grape swells under the vine leaf
The Sun is come to our mountain
there is a red glow in the carpet of pine spikes
O lynx, guard my vineyard
As the grape swells under vine leaf
This Goddess was born of sea-foam
She is lighter than air under the Evening Star
You are frightened, Aphrodite
terrible in resistance
Persephone and Diana and Maia
threefold as prelude
Aphrodite of Cyprus
a petal lighter than sea-foam
Aphrodite
the grove
needs
an altar
O puma, sacred to Hermes, Puma servant of the Sun.
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