False Novel Failure
Surprising spring fountains up natural, early pubertal generational perennial or late April, a sap-rising selfconsciousness rubbed off on the palm, the fresh wild garlic leaves the rich and stinging smell of self, from pleasuring awakening to guilt and sin. Think thought and tap it, form a habit, or abstain from stain and shameful yet unwitnessed unenlightened exhibitions of fitness, under lilac in the alley down the lane, unzipped. No love for other either in the private part of soul in solipsism’s endogenous burgeon of healthy young male primates or, more social, the surreal grotesquery of dirty jokes that figure outsize organs, in an atmosphere of pigswill and unloving pokes, the foul precursors of a porno tone. All this will be revoked when I hear Susan call my name: I turn and see her smile and wave while passing on into cool shade, stone glass-steel arcade. So soon she had become my muse and dream soul’s ruler, snow white peak, clear pool, a cause of poetry, a blond girl from school, or Petrarch’s Laura, a youth’s mistake. A surprisingly pure spring founts altruistic desires to make absolute gift of what I had millions and millions of. That she would never take from me what I had plenty of, the seed of love. Susan W. Snow White. South West. A Soft Wet aura. I tugged her blond hair once on the top deck of the Dunscar bus.
Sin a Miasma
And if there is an almost desperately pure desire to give, the self and seed to whom you love in love, in verse your words to whomsoever, or in prayer to god, and gift impulse meets with rebuff, unwanted and return to sender, wrong address, where then can you spill or dump or generally waste your stuff? The drain, the fire or the recycling centre? Tip it, littering the woods, unhappy lover. God though, who refuses love? Ask me another. Head off on a bender. Give your money and an undertaking. I gave what I took. That’s a relief. Who gives a fuck? Whose pleasure were you faking? Must have spent a mint. Weak at the knees for sports in shorts, I found faint glory part absurd. And there I made my bed and lay to dream a wild wet sea or mop the step. I’ll never stalk the tomcat streets and nor desire to drown in fluff and feather down nor grind to dust but find and found some better ground. For there is sin; there is miasma; there’s miasmic sin. Maybe the monotheist moralists condensed common experience. There’s something queachy-queasy in the marshes where we sink. Hetero-sodomy! In verse, through verse, the perverse inclinations grip as vice. Take my advice: Refuse my spout. I am voracious now, and can’t be nice. Abhor me for these marshes stink. My thoughts ran somewhat anal when I saw her naked buttocks as she leaned over the sink. Her cheeks shone rosy pink.
A Miasma Sin
I’ve been loading a container with lubricious language all day, and I’m tired, of being quagged in the miasma. With certain solvents the quag sticks less, miasma looses hold. It isn’t really sin as shames me but stupidity, incompetence and ignorance. But today this is in the past. The old miasma cannot last. The new one is composed of dreadful ones, les cons, with a primitive lust for political torture, and a target list. And I’m sick of reading it’s my like who are to blame for the corruption that has come to pass. I was only thirteen when the nineteen sixties came and went in one decade, as though our moral standards had decayed. In February nineteen forty-seven snowfalls covered the nursing home. I freely supped my spoons of orange juice or cod liver oil. I shan’t forget the cupboard they were kept in. Rarely have I ever made in fact the beds I’ve slept in. Call me crap or call me fool, it was The Pocket Oxford Dictionary I used as porn at school. Seduce and prostitute and masturbate, penis, vagina too. I took instruction in the quiet hours from The Hygiene of Sex. After a varying time the climax of local and general pleasurable excitation occurs, with the completion of the act which is, in the male, the ejaculation in rhythmic thrusts of jets of warm seminal fluid into the vagina, and in both, the sensation which is called orgasm.
No More Loose Talk
That could be something to look forward to, I’d come to think as I’d undress. Now I look back. My writing-fingers ache. The False Novel has lost its way. The month today is May. The oaks always emerge in leaf before the ashes do. I’ve suffered soaks and splashes too. The view from Foster Clough, a constant stay, is ever new. I know The False Novel has turned out to be formless now; that I have prematurely come to find this Loose Talk closure in not composition but composure. Wouldn’t you? I shan’t embark upon the tale I’d meant to tell herein about the Seventeen Nights of Lust that made and marred my marriage, in which sheer confession must be stained by self-defence. There is a fuzzy boundary twixt lust and love. In matters of desire it is far better or more blessed to desire to give than to desire to take. And we can bake a sugar cake that I can take for all the boys to see. And the desire to give feels virtuous yet cannot guarantee any degree of pleasure taken. The lust to be given remains miasmic. This is comic. This is tragic. Certain poets are in love with ideal readers whom they never satisfy. Neither do I. Forget frustrated generosity. Work on poetic image magic. Shun loose talk. Shut up about the view. If I love you, what’s that to do with you? And please do not believe a word I say unless it happens to be true. Can I buy you a drink?