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Manuscript - 1974

to weep in her hair

sweating in the kitchen
trying to hit one out of here
54 years old
fear bounding up my arms
toenails much too long
growth on side of leg

the difference in the factories was
we all felt our pain
together

the other night I went to see the
great soprano
she was still beautiful
still sexy
still in personal mourning
but she missed note after note
drunk
she murdered art

sweating in the kitchen
I don't want to murder art

I should see the doctor and get that thing
cut off my leg
but I am a coward
I might scream and frighten a child
in the waiting room

I would like to fuck the great soprano
I'd like to weep in her hair
I'd like to watch her walk to the bathroom

Polly wants a cracker
Popeye writes his phone number on shithouse walls:
"I suck young boys."

and there's Lorca still down in the road
eating Spanish bullets in the dust

the great soprano has never read my poems
we both know how to murder art
drink and mourn

sweating in this kitchen
the formulas are gone
the best poet I ever knew is dead
the others write me letters

I tell them that I want to fuck
the great soprano
but they write back about other
things
useless things
dull things
vain things

I watch a fly on top of my radio

he knows what it is
but he can't talk to me

the great soprano is dead.

    
Play the Piano Drunk - 1979

to weep

sweating in the kitchen
trying to hit one out of here
56 years old
fear bounding up my arms
toenails much too long
growth on side of leg

the difference in the factories was
we all felt pain
together

the other night I went to see the
great soprano
she was still beautiful
still sensual
still in personal mourning
but she missed note after note
drunk
she murdered art

sweating in the kitchen
I don't want to murder art

I should see the doctor and get that thing
cut off my leg
but I am a coward
I might scream and frighten a child
in the waiting room

I would like to fuck the great soprano
I'd like to weep in her hair

and there's Lorca down in the road
eating Spanish bullets in the dust

the great soprano has never read my poems
but we both know how to murder art
drink and mourn

sweating in this kitchen
the formulas are gone
the best poet I ever knew is dead
the others write me letters

I tell them that I want to fuck
the great soprano
but they write back about other
things
useless things
dull things
vain things

I watch a fly land on my radio

he knows what it is
but he can't talk to me

the soprano is dead.

    
The Continual Condition - 2009

to kiss her long dark hair

sweating in the kitchen
trying to hit one out of here
54 years old
fear bounding up my arms
toenails much too long
growth on the side of one leg.

the difference in the factories was that
we all felt our pain
together.

the other night I went to see the
great soprano
she was still beautiful
still sexy
still in personal mourning
but she missed note after note.
drunk,
she murdered art.

sweating in the kitchen
I don't want to murder art.

I should see the doctor and get that thing
cut off my leg
but I am a coward
I might scream and frighten a child
in the waiting room.

I would like to comfort the great soprano
I'd like to kiss her long dark hair.

and there's Lorca down in the road
eating Spanish bullets in the dust;
the great soprano has never read my poems
but we both know how to murder art
how to drink and mourn;
sweating now in this kitchen
the formulas are gone
the best poet I ever knew is dead
and abandoned in the dust;
the others write me letters.

I tell them that I want to comfort
both Lorca and
the great soprano
but they write back about other
things
useless things
dull things
vain things.

I watch a fly crawl on top of my radio.

he knows what the answer is
but he can't talk to me.