 |
|
Jolly Houses On Broom-Tailed White Horses Six o'clock awoke in the trees to the clapping of bells and jolly houses galloped past on broom-tailed white horses up the hilly day, and around the sun, where red poppies lay quietly down in the eyes of a blue garden perched in a gazebo where ceremonies hideous and mysterious, rubbed the great ancient circuses together like sticks, as undreamt lumbered forth day with its mob wagging torches in the unconscious cities governed by holy heretic parliament, muttering the seven sacraments of terror, joy and desire, as they madly stomped through skulls, keen for the pretty, queer lights of the Empire, before heaping their bodies on the fire. When Morning Knocks Gladly When morning knocks gladly, eager with lunatic opinions, thoughts float like dead fish on the shiny surface of day, bearing the sad miracles, the sacks of hearts one must dig a hole for in the undefiled gladness, awaken the handsome moments of quiet apologies that fill our hands with starlight and close forever the secret passage from night. I'm Baggy In Because I'm baggy in because and snug in why, all bundled in my warm goodbye -- and smug in my now, my Oh my some-how come honey me with moon-gleam, till I'm wild in my anyhow, and every if's dream a revolution of whys, and humble never-was slay mighty always-been with surprise. Little Piggy Everything Oh, now there secretly once stuffed a black kerchief down can't tell you's mouth -- and who'll ever guess watched little piggy everything, in waistcoat and trousers, lug that heavy I tell you, with Love's dead body snug in a bag of why nots, upstairs where can't tell you waited in the long, thin dark of a last believe what you wish. -- Ernest Slyman  |
||