We are getting by, quite nicely, with the Silver poets of España
doing the donkey work and with the puppetry of Federico Garcia Lorca
performing in the shadows of the rack,
Now that's what I call carrying the canon on one's back, reading
a bit too much between the eyes, still in the rough, common as muck,
in the back of a Cuban bar
Snogging sailors, snorkelling in the mirrored sea, swimming off tangent
off the junk, the dialogue dated, a simile
Pushing a zimmer frame, senescence in flagrante delicto,
the kind of Yvor Winters' jibe at Rexroth, "you are long in the tooth"
all the old "we want to screw...
You guys and gals, the f-ing Victoria out of your system, pull down
censorship, pull down the drawers and undies,
what's the nautical term for breaking your heart,
So I'll walk the plank, dammit if you want carpentry for poetry
the usual fruit market, where you assemble rhyme, metre, imagery
apples and pears
I'll go upstairs: Nature, God and Eros, done and wrapped up for
knock-down price, all for the cost of two over ripe
bananas
Hey, Hart, they prefer, rather, the tufted ducks
with their heads, black and white, with Daffy features,
buried in their backs
acast like fishing tops, the rings emanating from them
outwards, like the glass you find in hoity-toity old
fashioned windows
They want their f**ks too, have the wood pigeons
on lamp post above the rectangular pond
coupling like rabbits
then the female blackbird, in jerky movements,
two hops, head down, two hops, head down
then two hops
Mesmerised by the natural, you'd think the poem
was complete, though this me mate, is just a
fragment, a shard.
Let's change tack.
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