Opus posthumous, number 3
It’s buried at a distance, on my insistence, buried.
Weather’s severe there, which it will not mind.
I miss it.
O happies before & during & between the times it got married.
I hate the the love of leaving it behind,
deteriorating & hopeless that.
The great Uh climbed above me, far above me,
doing the north face, or behind it. Does He love me?
over, & flout.
Goodness is bits of outer God. The house-guest
(slimmed-down) with one eye open & one breast
Slimmed-down from by-blow; adoptive-up; was white.
A daughter of a friend. His soul is a sight.
—Mr. Bones. what’s all about?
Girl have a little: what be wrong with that?
You free?—Down some many did descend
from the abominable & semi-mortal Cat.
Opus posthumous, number 4
He loom’ so cagey he say “Leema beans”
and measured his intake to the atmosphere
of that fairly stable country.
His ear hurt. Left. The rock-cliffs, a mite sheer
at his age, in these places.
Scrubbing out his fear—
The knowledge that they will take off your hands,
both hands; as well as your both feet, & likewise
might be discouraging to a bloody hero
Also you stifle, like you can’t draw breath.
But this is death—
which in some vain strive many to avoid,
many. It’s on its way, where you drop at
who stood up, scrunch down small.
It wasn’t so much after all to lose, was, Boyd?
A body.—But Mr. Bones, you needed that.
now I put on my tall hat.
Opus posthumous, number 5
Maskt as honors, insult like behaving
missiles homes, I bow & grunt “Thank You.
I’m glad you could come
so late. All loves are gratified. I’m having,
to screw a little thing I have to screw.
Good nature is over.
Here with ill-wishes. From a cozy grave
rainbow I scornful laughings. Do not do,
Father, me down.
let’s shuck an obligation. OI have
done. Is the inner-coffin burning blue
or did Jehovah frown?
Jehovah. Period. Yahweh. Period. God.
It is marvelous that views so differay
(Father is a Jesuit)
can love so well each other. We was had.
O visit in my last tomb me.—Perche?
—Is a nice pit.
Opus posthumous, number 6
I recall a boil, whereupon as I had to sit,
just where, and when I had to, for deadlines.
OI could learn to type standing,
but isn’t it slim to be slumped off from that,
problems undignified, fiery dig salt mines?—
Content on one’s back flat:
coming no deadline—as all ancient nonsense—
no typewriters—ha! ha!—no typewriters—
For I have much to open. I know immense
troubles & wonders to their secret curse.
Yet when erect on my ass,
Pissed-off, I sat two-square, I kept shut
and stilled my nimble fingers across keys.
That is I stood up.
Now since down I lay, void of love & ruth,
I’d howl my knowings, only there’s the earth
December 15, 1966