...FROM EVERYTHING I SEE
Like a further devil, I wish to carry you
past the black forests where the smoke
smoulders the peat-covered ground. I want
to hear your drummer sing, your vocalist cry,
and see all your psychic policemen get
taken away. I want the final pole of the
driver's art taken down with him having
bullets in his boots. 'Who pours himself
forth as a spring, him Cognizance knows.
What shuts itself into remaining already
is starkness.' Something to that pattern
of Rilke and all his malodorous odes that
never quite set right with me. Instead of a joy,
some final, fuzzy weirdness of a boy who
should have been a girl, or vice-versa.
I can hardly either look or listen.
My feverish weight, instead,
just wants to run away
from everything I see.
Like a further devil, I wish to carry you
past the black forests where the smoke
smoulders the peat-covered ground. I want
to hear your drummer sing, your vocalist cry,
and see all your psychic policemen get
taken away. I want the final pole of the
driver's art taken down with him having
bullets in his boots. 'Who pours himself
forth as a spring, him Cognizance knows.
What shuts itself into remaining already
is starkness.' Something to that pattern
of Rilke and all his malodorous odes that
never quite set right with me. Instead of a joy,
some final, fuzzy weirdness of a boy who
should have been a girl, or vice-versa.
I can hardly either look or listen.
My feverish weight, instead,
just wants to run away
from everything I see.
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