Eleven a.m.
arrives
On
Fifty-seventh Street.
Uneaten
marmalade
Is hissing
on the fire,
With a
dentist’s bill unpaid.
My second
glass of beer
Froths over
the white
Tablecloth
of the earth,
Saturating
our private lives
With the
yeasty smell of death:
Oh God, I’m
already a bit tight.
Alcoholism
can
Often cause
offence—
From
Luther's time until now
It has
driven vicars mad,
And also a
good few women.
From what
bottle sprayed
This
unwholesome geyser, God?
I’m in a low
dive now
With a
lowlife called Burn,
I'll have
another one
And then we might adjourn.
Thucydides
liked a brew—
That’s all I’m
prepared to say
About
Democracy.
I’m going to
the loo
When I’ve
finished this piece of pork.
While I'm in
the lav
I’ll try, my love, to read your book—
And oh,
while I’m away,
I’ll have
the same again.
This pork
tastes like beef.
I think
someone’s pulling my chain.
In the front
bar
They don’t
tolerate my abuse.
I suppose I
can’t complain;
It’s a
reasonable ban.
My life is
down the drain
And I have
no excuse.
Have I told
you how I long
For a nice
piece of bream?
From behind
the bar they stare.
I have an
awful face;
I think I’ll
sing a song.
Ah, here
comes Jack Tar—
He’ll be
here all day:
His trousers
make men pout,
But I always
have to pay.
I’m starting
to perspire;
I’ll put on
some perfume;
I might take
him home,
Or we might
go to another bar—
It depends
on his mood.
He also
looks a bit tight
I’m going to
say something lewd.
I’ve got a
nasty rash—
I’ll have a
glass of stout
And perhaps
some fried fish
(And as for
what mad Nijinsky wrote
About
Diaghilev
I don’t give
a flying fart).
My words, you say, are
too close to the bone.
Each woman
and each man
Craves what
I cannot have:
Not
universal love,
But to be
left alone.
I’m in the bloody
dark.
I've kissed goodbye to life.
I’ve got
polyps up my arse,
And a face
like a dying cow;
“I will take
my fork and knife
And do
justice to some pork.”
My helpless
bowels quake;
They cry
justice for well-practiced fouls:
Who dares
release them now?
I’m going
slightly deaf—
Will anyone
hear my clamorous bowels?
That is now
my voice.
I’ll have a
slice of pie.
I met a man
on the D-Train
Who had the
most remarkable feet.
We walked to
the Port Authority
And he began
to cry.
I had a
piece of skate;
He preferred
to eat alone;
Hunger
allows no choice;
He
threatened to call the police;
I must have bream or die.
I rarely go
out at night,
I rarely
wear socks or ties—
And never
underwear.
I still need
that shite—
I’ve
unleashed another gust:
These are
messages.
May I,
composed like them
Of Thanatos
and rust,
Beleaguered
by new shame,
Denial and
despair,
Have
another glass of the same?
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