for the
down-stroke of the Roman N when suddenly too soon too soon a few more little scenes
suddenly I cross it out good and deep Saint Andrew of the Black Sea and opener signifying
again I’m subject to these whims
my life again above in the light the sack stirs grows still again stirs again the
light through the worn thread strains less white sharp sounds distant still but less
it’s evening he crawls tiny out of the sack me again I’m there again the first is
always me then the others
what age my God fifty sixty eighty shrunken kneeling arse on heels hands on ground
splayed like feet very clear picture thighs aching the arse rises the head drops touches
the straw it’s preferable sound of sweeping the dog’s tail we want to go on home at
last
my eyes open still to light I see each halm sounds of hammers three or four at least
hammers chisels crosses perhaps or some other ornament
I crawl to the door raise my head yes I assure you peer through a chink and so I would
go to the world’s end on my knees to the world’s end right round it on my knees arms
forelegs eyes an inch from the ground I’d smell the world again my laughter in dry
weather raises the dust on my knees up the gangways between decks with the emigrants
homer mauve light of evening mauve wave among the streets the serotines abroad already
we not yet not such fools I’m the brain of the two sounds distant still but less its
the evening air does that one must understand these things and later drawing near
that it’s only a creaking of wheels drawing near iron felly jolting on the stones
the harvest perhaps coming home but the hooves in that case
no matter there I am again how I last on my knees hands joined before my face thumb-tips
before my nose finger-tips before the door my crown or vertex against the door one
can see the attitude not knowing what to say whom to implore what to implore no matter it’s the attitude
that counts it’s the intention
how I last some day it will be night and all asleep we shall slip out the tail sweeps
the straw it hasn’t all its wits mine now to think for us both here come the veils
most dear from left and right they wipe us away then the rest the whole door away
life above little scene I couldn’t have imagined it I couldn’t
thump on skull no point in post mortems and then what then what we’ll try and see
last words cut thrust a few words DO YOU LOVE ME CUNT no disappearance of Pim end
of part two leaving only part three and last one can’t go on one goes on as before
can one ever stop put a stop that’s more like it one can’t go on one can’t stop put
a stop
so Pim stops life above in the light he can’t give any more me permitting or thump
on skull I can’t take any more it’s one or the other and what them him me I’ll ask
him but first me when Pim stops what becomes of me but first the bodies glued together
mine on the north good so much for the trunks the legs but the hands when Pim stops
where are they the arms the hands what are they at
his right way off on the right axis of the clavicle or cross Saint Andrew of the Volga
mine about his shoulders his neck I can’t see good so much for the right arms and
their hands I can’t see it’s not said in keeping and the others the left the arms
we’re talking of our arms full stretch before us the hands together in the sack good
so much for the four arms the four hands but how together touching simply or clasped
clasped but how clasped as in the handshake no but his flat mine on top the crooked
fingers slipped between his the nails against his palm it’s the position they have
finally adopted clear picture of that good and parenthesis the vision suddenly too
late a little late of how my injunctions by other means more humane
my behests by a different set of signals quite different more humane more subtle from
left hand to left hand in the sack nails and palm
down-stroke of the Roman N when suddenly too soon too soon a few more little scenes
suddenly I cross it out good and deep Saint Andrew of the Black Sea and opener signifying
again I’m subject to these whims
my life again above in the light the sack stirs grows still again stirs again the
light through the worn thread strains less white sharp sounds distant still but less
it’s evening he crawls tiny out of the sack me again I’m there again the first is
always me then the others
what age my God fifty sixty eighty shrunken kneeling arse on heels hands on ground
splayed like feet very clear picture thighs aching the arse rises the head drops touches
the straw it’s preferable sound of sweeping the dog’s tail we want to go on home at
last
my eyes open still to light I see each halm sounds of hammers three or four at least
hammers chisels crosses perhaps or some other ornament
I crawl to the door raise my head yes I assure you peer through a chink and so I would
go to the world’s end on my knees to the world’s end right round it on my knees arms
forelegs eyes an inch from the ground I’d smell the world again my laughter in dry
weather raises the dust on my knees up the gangways between decks with the emigrants
homer mauve light of evening mauve wave among the streets the serotines abroad already
we not yet not such fools I’m the brain of the two sounds distant still but less its
the evening air does that one must understand these things and later drawing near
that it’s only a creaking of wheels drawing near iron felly jolting on the stones
the harvest perhaps coming home but the hooves in that case
no matter there I am again how I last on my knees hands joined before my face thumb-tips
before my nose finger-tips before the door my crown or vertex against the door one
can see the attitude not knowing what to say whom to implore what to implore no matter it’s the attitude
that counts it’s the intention
how I last some day it will be night and all asleep we shall slip out the tail sweeps
the straw it hasn’t all its wits mine now to think for us both here come the veils
most dear from left and right they wipe us away then the rest the whole door away
life above little scene I couldn’t have imagined it I couldn’t
thump on skull no point in post mortems and then what then what we’ll try and see
last words cut thrust a few words DO YOU LOVE ME CUNT no disappearance of Pim end
of part two leaving only part three and last one can’t go on one goes on as before
can one ever stop put a stop that’s more like it one can’t go on one can’t stop put
a stop
so Pim stops life above in the light he can’t give any more me permitting or thump
on skull I can’t take any more it’s one or the other and what them him me I’ll ask
him but first me when Pim stops what becomes of me but first the bodies glued together
mine on the north good so much for the trunks the legs but the hands when Pim stops
where are they the arms the hands what are they at
his right way off on the right axis of the clavicle or cross Saint Andrew of the Volga
mine about his shoulders his neck I can’t see good so much for the right arms and
their hands I can’t see it’s not said in keeping and the others the left the arms
we’re talking of our arms full stretch before us the hands together in the sack good
so much for the four arms the four hands but how together touching simply or clasped
clasped but how clasped as in the handshake no but his flat mine on top the crooked
fingers slipped between his the nails against his palm it’s the position they have
finally adopted clear picture of that good and parenthesis the vision suddenly too
late a little late of how my injunctions by other means more humane
my behests by a different set of signals quite different more humane more subtle from
left hand to left hand in the sack nails and palm
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