Let us vote then, you and I
When the evening news is spreading lies To the patient etherized upon a fable
Let us vote then, you and I, When the evening news is spreading lies To the patient etherized upon a fable;
Let us go, through a certain half-deserted mind The muttering unkind Of restless nights in one-night Trump hotels And sawed-off shotguns bring fresher hells:
Sheets that follow like an arduous tegument Of insidious portent To lead you over a whelming question ... Oh, do not ask, “Who is it?” Let us go and pay a visit.
In the room the women come aglow Talking to Lothario.
The yellow blog that wipes its back upon the window pains, The mellow bloke that rubs his pizzle on the window-panes,
Licked his tongue onto the joiners of the evening, Lingered upon the fools that stand to gain, Let fall upon their backs the shit that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the tongue, made a logic leap,
And seeing that it was a sick October night, Curled at once into a mouse, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time For the mellow bloke that pisses on the street, Rubbing his back upon the window-panes; There will be crime, there will be crime To prepare a face to meet the feces that you meet; There will be time to murder not create, And time for all the jerks and lays of hands That lift and drop a dollop on your fate; Time for me and time for me, And crime yet for a Mordred in revision, And for a hundred incisions and divisions, Before the making of toast of thee.
In the room the women come aglow Charging the Lothario.
And indeed there will be time To serve. “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn black, nude-descend the stair, With a bald spot in the whole of my hair — (They will say: “How his brain is growing thin!”)
My morning gloat, my collie mounting firmly to the hen, My necktie richly immodest, my ass hurted when I sat on a pin —
(They won't say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”) Do I care? Disturb the universe! In a senate there is crime And decisions and revisions which a senate will perverse.
For I have known them all already, blown them all: Have blown them evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out their life with creamer spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying thup Beneath them, music from her father's room. So should I say "Whassup?"
And I have known the ayes already, known the mall— The ayes that fix you like a Cold Play song phrase, And when I drink Formuloso, sprawling like a fin, When I have sinned and frigging off the wall, Then how should I butt-in? To spill out all the butt-ins of my days and ways? And how should I resume?
And I have known the harms already, known the mall— Harms that are bracingly white and bare (But in the gaslight, crowned her right down there!) Is it stains upon a dress They seem to want me to confess? Harms that lie across the table, or crap upon them all. And should I them consume? With whom should I begin?
Shall I say, it is dawn at dusk, through linen sheets And watch the smoke that rises from the pipes Of klannish men in shirt-sleeves, howling from car windows? ... I should have been a pair of ragged claws Prying the lids off of silent laws.