I
say I will not be with the brave decent kindly honest men who merely tolerate
the taste of life. While my wife sleeps I sit alone at night and drink
cheap wine and stir the source of what is foul in me. I
know that increase cannot come from good. Thought shows (by gilding omens
of an endless Not while decent conduct rots us to a ghost) how complicated
desperation is: or shows the strong dung that feeds my root the most. Let
pain prepare her to sustain my stain, crush all not me in her brain: and
yet, when semen smells like rotten weed I wish I were a grain, a stone, a shell to
lie on the ground and be rubbed away by the decent movements of earth, and
air, and rain. |