Hayseed Huck
04-20-2010, 06:12 PM
I am dying of the plague.
I enjoyed marketing in Paris. Up early to the stands
of fruit and vegetables, fish and red meat-- the
choicest tid-bits. I miss it, as I lay here dying
of the plague.
Blame my diet.
I enjoyed partying in northern Russia. Up late evening
to the houses of Siberian eskimo girls who smelled of
taiga and then to Africa-- sub-Saharan girls who smelled
of mice.
As I rest here dying of the plague blame my common, hu-
man appetite.
If I have dirt
in my ears,
God, you put it there.
Or,
In Adam's fall
we sinned all.
My black, open, running sores ...
My nurse, the new mother-girl who brings for me her
breasts to milk-suck. My horse there standing outside.
I see from this window he's scratching his butt on
the trunk of a tree, plague free, gush-pissing and
shooing flies with quick sweeps of his tail.
I think all my blood has been burnt out.
I do not dream.
I do not blame my father who strapped his children
every Sunday night to cleanse the flesh.
I am not tormented by thoughts of running again my
hands over marble columns in the Deuxiene Arrondisse-
ment, passing through the several gates in and out
and beside and near Pairs-- Porte Sainte Denis, Pi-
orte d'Orleans, des Lilas
--- oh.
The pocket gardens..
The plague deliriums resonate in me visions of fer-
rets and lemurs scurrying across my bed-- where I
lie dying and nourishing from the beety breasts of
my nurse, Annetio Florane.
God Bless Her!
I gain a little strength from looking at her pale
face and dirt licey hair and her one filthy hand
that holds her breast to my mouth. I find inspira-
tion that she knows Greek and Latin, that she re-
cites from Sophocles.
She knows what sophrosyne means.
She says her babe is fat and content and pukes her
milk. She must give it to someone, and it never
sours in the stench of my stomach.
The sores blacken and seem to stitch tight after pus-
sing. She leans down and wipes the milk from my lips.
She touches her milk dribbling down from my plague-
blackened lips. She licks her fingers. I think she
is a saint, or will be one, one day.
I know she loves me.
After my feeding, she covers her breasts with a cloth,
gentle, and then takes it away, as if she had prepared
a bath after visiting with friends and now must go to
the window for another view of the Pyrenees
before she steps over the rim of the wash tub.
I am now
in a restless mood.
I cannot do else
but lie here
and die of the plague.
HH
I enjoyed marketing in Paris. Up early to the stands
of fruit and vegetables, fish and red meat-- the
choicest tid-bits. I miss it, as I lay here dying
of the plague.
Blame my diet.
I enjoyed partying in northern Russia. Up late evening
to the houses of Siberian eskimo girls who smelled of
taiga and then to Africa-- sub-Saharan girls who smelled
of mice.
As I rest here dying of the plague blame my common, hu-
man appetite.
If I have dirt
in my ears,
God, you put it there.
Or,
In Adam's fall
we sinned all.
My black, open, running sores ...
My nurse, the new mother-girl who brings for me her
breasts to milk-suck. My horse there standing outside.
I see from this window he's scratching his butt on
the trunk of a tree, plague free, gush-pissing and
shooing flies with quick sweeps of his tail.
I think all my blood has been burnt out.
I do not dream.
I do not blame my father who strapped his children
every Sunday night to cleanse the flesh.
I am not tormented by thoughts of running again my
hands over marble columns in the Deuxiene Arrondisse-
ment, passing through the several gates in and out
and beside and near Pairs-- Porte Sainte Denis, Pi-
orte d'Orleans, des Lilas
--- oh.
The pocket gardens..
The plague deliriums resonate in me visions of fer-
rets and lemurs scurrying across my bed-- where I
lie dying and nourishing from the beety breasts of
my nurse, Annetio Florane.
God Bless Her!
I gain a little strength from looking at her pale
face and dirt licey hair and her one filthy hand
that holds her breast to my mouth. I find inspira-
tion that she knows Greek and Latin, that she re-
cites from Sophocles.
She knows what sophrosyne means.
She says her babe is fat and content and pukes her
milk. She must give it to someone, and it never
sours in the stench of my stomach.
The sores blacken and seem to stitch tight after pus-
sing. She leans down and wipes the milk from my lips.
She touches her milk dribbling down from my plague-
blackened lips. She licks her fingers. I think she
is a saint, or will be one, one day.
I know she loves me.
After my feeding, she covers her breasts with a cloth,
gentle, and then takes it away, as if she had prepared
a bath after visiting with friends and now must go to
the window for another view of the Pyrenees
before she steps over the rim of the wash tub.
I am now
in a restless mood.
I cannot do else
but lie here
and die of the plague.
HH