IGNIS FATUUS​ I​ THE ONLY SOLITUDE IS SLEEP OR DEATH​ II​ WE, WERE NOT CLEVER ENOUGH-​ KIND TO OTHERS AND​ CRUEL TO SELF WHEN SELF​ ASKED FOR MERCY AND WAS​ DENIED​ III​ THE HOLIEST PRIVACY REMAINS​ WAITING ON US,​ AND ALL THAT WAS MISUNDERSTOOD​ OR ABANDONED WILL COME TOGETHER.​ IV​ LET MY FAILURE BE YOUR​ FORTUNE: THIS THAT WAS BROKEN IN CARELESS​ ERROR--LET IT BE KNOWN​ THAT TO KNOW YOUR OWN DEATH​ IS TO DIE TWICE: ONCE REALLY​ AND THEN​ HARDLY AT ALL.​ V​ LET IT BE KNOWN THAT THERE IS​ NOTHING AS UGLY​ IN ALL IT'S TANGENTS​ AS THE HUMAN BEAST--A TRICK​ SET AGAINST THE BLOOD OF YOUR​ SOUL.​ VI​ LET IT BE KNOWN THAT​ SOLITUDE IS THE ONLY MERCY AND THE ONLY​ LOVER.​ VII​ LET IT BE KNOWN THAT MOST MEN​ LOVE WHAT THEY CAN SEE​ AND THEY CAN SEE EACH OTHER​ AND THEY LOVE THIS​ BECAUSE THEY ARE VERY​ LITTLE.​ VIII​ LET IT BE KNOWN THAT I AM​ BITTER AND DAMNED AND TIRED AND​ USELESS; LET IT BE KNOWN THAT​ WHEN THE FINAL HOPE GOES​ THERE REMAINS BUT A​ STARING AT THE DANCE AND A​ WATCHING OF THE FEEBLE INTERCOURSE​ OF THE IDIOTS​ WITH VERY LITTLE​ NOTE TAKING.​ IX​ LET IT BE KNOWN THAT I AM​ DEAD BUT THAT THERE IS NO​ ANGER; LET IT BE KNOWN THAT​ MOST MEN ARE DEAD MANY YEARS​ BEFORE BURIAL; LET IT BE KNOWN​ THAT MANY MEN DIE IN CHILDHOOD,​ THAT MANY MEN ARE BORN DEAD--​ ALTHOUGH THEIR PARTS MOVE AND​ THEY MAKE SOUND AND GROW AND​ ADVANCE INTO ADULT BEHAVIOR​ AND DO THE THINGS OF CIVILIZATION;​ LET IT BE KNOWN THAT THESE MEN​ NEVER EXISTED AND THAT THEIR FUNERALS​ WERE EXTREME FARCE, AND ALSO THE DEAD TEARS​ FOR THE ALREADY DEAD; LET IT BE KNOWN​ THAT THE WORMS THEMSELVES WERE NEARER TO TRUTH​ IN THAT THEY DID NOT​ CRY.​ X​ LET IT BE KNOWN THAT A MAN NEED NOT BE​ CHRIST TO BE CRUCIFIED; LET IT BE KNOWN THAT​ A MAN CAN BE CRUCIFIED EACH DAY, EACH MOMENT​ EACH BREATH;--TO SLEEP AND AWAKEN AND BE​ TORMENTED AGAIN; LET IT BE KNOWN THAT​ A MAN CAN DIE AND DIE AND DIE AND DIE AND​ STILL FEEL THE PAIN AND KNOW HE IS DEAD​ AND STILL FEEL THE PAIN AND KNOW THERE IS​ NOTHING HE CAN DO AND​ STILL FEEL THE PAIN. LET IT BE KNOWN.​ XI​ LET IT BE KNOWN THAT THE TEMPLES ARE NOTHING​ AND THE BELLS ARE NOTHING AND FAME IS NOTHING​ AND VICTORY IS NOTHING AND SEX IS NOTHING AND​ THAT SOLITUDE BRINGS MADNESS AND THE CROWD​ BRINGS MADNESS AND DRINK EATS THE BODY LIKE A​ TIGER; THAT THERE IS NO VOICE TO SPEAK WITH,​ NO EAR TO HEAR.​ XII​ LET IT BE KNOWN THAT​ THERE WILL BE OTHER MEN SUCH AS I--​ LIFTED FOR THE LION'S MOUTH, BURNED DOWN​ BY FALSE LOVES, TRICKED BY KINDNESS, MISLED BY​ INTELLECT, DIZZIED BY POESY, SACRIFICED FOR​ PROFIT, USED AS CHEAP LABOR; AND THESE WILL BE​ THE KINDEST OF THE HAPPENINGS COMPARED TO WHAT​ WILL ENTER THE EYE AND THE EAR AND THE BRAIN​ AND SEEP TO THE INNARDS TO BEGIN THEIR DEATH-WORK.​ I PITY ALL SUCH BROTHERS OF MINE WHO WILL FOLLOW ME​ IN THE CENTURIES, UNABLE TO LOVE BECAUSE THERE IS​ NOTHING TO LOVE; UNABLE TO KILL BECAUSE THERE IS​ NOTHING ALIVE; FOREVER HANGING AND BLEEDING AND​ DIZZIED BY THE BEAST-HUMAN, THE WALLS, THE GARDENS,​ THE SUN, THE FLOWERS, THE KISSES, THE FLAGS,​ THE SEAS, THE ANIMALS, THE FOOD, THE LIQUORS,​ THE PAINTINGS, THE SYMPHONIES, ALL USELESSNESS.​ XIII​ LET IT BE KNOWN THAT​ BIRTH IS NOT HOLY, THAT DEATH IS NOT HOLY,​ THAT LIFE IS NOT HOLY; LET IT BE KNOWN THAT​ I HAVE BLED WITHOUT CROWNS,​ THAT I WILL BLEED IN A MOMENT,​ THAT I WILL BLEED FOREVER​ RED RED RED​ AND THE HAWKS WILL DANCE WITHIN MY BONES AND REJOICE;​ BUT THAT I DIE FOR WHAT MAN IS AND NOT FOR WHAT I ALMOST WAS--​ THEY TOO LITTLE OF ANYTHING,​ AND MYSELF JUST LIFTED ENOUGH​ TO SEE THE HORROR,​ TO SICKEN AND GO MAD​ AND WILT.​ XIV​ DO NOT TAKE AS PERSONAL​ WHAT I SAY ABOUT LIFE​ ALTOGETHER, UNLESS,​ ON ANOTHER PLANE,​ YOU CONSIDER YOURSELF A​ DEFENDER OF LIFE AND MAN​ WHICH IS ONLY ANOTHER WEAKNESS​ OF THE SPECIES​ LIKE A RAT GAURDING IT'S NEST​ AND FOR WHICH I CAN NOT HOLD YOU​ TOTALY TO BLAME.​ XV​ THE ONLY SOLITUDE IS DEATH; BUT​ NOT THIS DEATH, NOT THIS DEATH, NOT THIS DEATH...​

I Cannot Stand Tears there were several hundred fools around the goose who broke her leg trying to decide what to do when the guard walked up and pulled out his cannon and the issue was finished except for a woman who ran out of a hut claiming he'd killed her pet but the guard rubbed his straps and told her kiss my ass, take it to the president; the woman was crying and I cannot stand tears. I folded my canvas and went further down the road: the bastards had ruined my landscape.

Love Is A Piece Of Paper Torn To Bits all the beers was poisoned and the capt. went down and the mate and the cook and we had nobody to grab sail and the N. wester ripped the sheets like toenails and we pitched like crazy the hull tearing its sides and all the time in the corner some punk had a drunken slut (my wife) and was pumping away like nothing was happening and the cat kept looking at me and crawling in the pantry amongst the clanking dishes with flowers and vines painted on them untill I could'nt stand it anymore and took the thing and heaved it over the side.

A very miraculous thing just happened My beer bottle flipped over backwards And landed on its bottom on the floor And I have set it upon the table to foam down But the photos were not so lucky today And there is a small slit on the leather of my left shoe But it’s all very simple We can not acquire too much There are laws we no nothing of All manners of nudges set us to burning or freezing What sets the blackbird in the cats’ mouth is not for us to say Or why some men are jailed like pet squirrels While others nuzzle enormous breasts through endless nights This is the task and the terror and we are not taught why Still, yes still, it’s lucky the bottle landed straight side up And although I have one of wine and one of whiskey This foresooth somehow a good night And perhaps tomorrow my nose will be longer New shoes Less rain More poems

man in the sun she reads to me from the New Yorker which I don’t buy, don’t know how they get in here, but it’s something about the Mafia one of the heads of the Mafia who ate too much and had it too easy too many fine women patting his walnuts, and he got fat sucking at good cigars and young breasts and he has these heart attacks – and so one day somebody is driving him in his big car along the road and he doesn’t feel so good and he asks the boy to stop and let him out and the boy lays him out along the road in the fine sunshine and before he dies he says: how beautiful life can be, and then he’s gone. sometimes you’ve got to kill 4 or 5 thousand men before you somehow get to believe that the sparrow is immortal, money is piss and that you have been wasting your time.

the state of world affairs from a 3rd floor window I am watching a girl dressed in light green sweater, blue shorts, long black stockings; there is a necklace of some sort but her breasts are small, poor thing, and she watches her nails as her dirty white dog sniffs the grass in erratic circles; a pigeon is there too, circling. half dead with a tick of a brain and I am upstairs in my underwear. 3 day beard, pouring a beer and waiting for something literary or symphonic to happen: but they keep circling, circling, and a thin old man in his last winter rolls by pushed by a girl in catholic school dress; somewhere there ore the Alps, and ships ore now crossing the sea; there are piles and piles of H- and A-bombs, enough to blow up fifty worlds and Mars thrown in, but they keep circling, t. girl shifts buttocks, and the Hollywood Hills stand there, stand there full of drunks and insane People and much kissing in automobiles. but it's no good: que sera, sera: her dirty white dog simply will not shit, and with a last bite at her nails she, whiff much whirling of buttocks walks to her downstairs court trailed by her constipated dog (simply not worried), leaving me looking at a most unsymphonic Pigeon. Well, from the looks of things, relax: the bombs will never go off.

30 dogs, 20 men on 20 horses and one fox and look here, they write, you are a dupe for the state, the church, you are in the ego-dream, read your history, study the monetary system, note that the racial war is 23,000 years old. well, I remember 20 years ago, sitting with an old Jewish tailor, his nose in the lamplight like a cannon sighted on the enemy; and there was an Italian pharmacist who lived in an expensive apartment in the best part of town; we plotted to overthrow a tottering dynasty, the tailor sewing buttons on a vest, the Italian poking his cigar in my eye, lighting me up, a tottering dynasty myself, always drunk as possible, well-read, starving, depressed, but actually a good young piece of ass would have solved all my rancor, but I didn’t know this; I listened to my Italian and my Jew and I went out down dark alleys smoking borrowed cigarettes and watching the backs of houses come down in flames, but somewhere we missed: we were not men enough, large or small enough, or we only wanted to talk or we were bored, so the anarchy fell through, and the Jew died and the Italian grew angry because I stayed with his wife when he went down to the pharmacy; he did not care to have his personal government overthrown, and she overthrew easy, and I had some guilt: the children were asleep in the other bedroom but later I won $200 in a crap game and took a bus to New Orleans and I stood on the corner listening to the music coming from bars and then I went inside to the bars, and I sat there thinking about the dead Jew, how all he did was sew on buttons and talk, and how he gave way although he was stronger than any of us he gave way because his bladder would not go on, and maybe that saved Wall Street and Manhattan and the Church and Central Park West and Rome and the Left Bank, but the pharmacist’s wife, she was nice, she was tired of bombs under the pillow and hissing the Pope, and she had a very nice figure, very good legs, but I guess she felt as I: that the weakness was not Government but Man, one at a time, that men were never as strong as their ideas and that ideas were governments turned into men; and so it began on a couch with a spilled martini and it ended in the bedroom: desire, revolution, nonsense ended, and the shades rattled in the wind, rattled like sabers, cracked like cannon, and 30 dogs, 20 men on 20 horses chased one fox across the fields under the sun, and I got out of bed and yawned and scratched my belly and knew that soon very soon I would have to get very drunk again.