Dream Song 84: Op. posth. no. 7

 Plop, plop.
 The lobster toppled in the pot,
fulfilling, dislike man, his destiny,
glowing fire-red,
succulent, and on the whole becoming what
man wants.
 I crack my final claw singly,
wind up the grave, & to bed.


—Sound good, Mr Bones.
 I wish I had me some.

(I spose you got a lessen up your slave.
)
—O no no no.

Sole I remember; where no lobster swine,—
pots hot or cold is none.
 With you I grieve
lightly, and I have no lesson.


Bodies are relishy, they say.
 Here's mine,
was.
 What ever happened to Political Economy,
leaving me here?
Is a rare—in my opinion—responsibility.

The military establishments perpetuate themselves forever.

Have a bite, for a sign.

Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem |

Poems are below...