Nycthemeron: the period of 24 hours.
Robert I met, or listend to, he said,
at a reading, we have decided to speak
of this, later, a wateringhole-cum -grill,
and he w penny loafers—so I tappt
at first in a prose telling, long sent
to the quasi-oblivion of over-written
cyber flotsam, but not vanisht:I type,
reiterating Duncan, who, by the by,
is not the Bob of whom I speak. That
is sheer co-inky-dink, Popeye wd say,
also:I yam what I yam; O Olive Oyl:
[Sofia] Sophia, the love of wisdom,
which is not knowledge: the skinny
one on the train, for God's alive inside
a movie, and prophets live, are subtle,
not bold, not naked, like Isaiah,
who walkt fur three years in Jerusalem,
nor Jeremiah, who walkd w arms confind
and lived to tell it to Baruch. Baruch !
—and long, lean legs in spruce gray slacks
& black socks, checkerd, hmm, no hint
of ankle, which reminds us of Keats's
Calidore, was it. I refuse to check.
An Induction to a sumpinrudder,
as Estlin peckt, of rich & sensuous lines
that prophesied the coming genius
of one who knew his place in the hallowd
heirarchy of English bards & Scotch
reviewers, to hearken to another genius,
alpha more than beta ? Whither was I ?
You were getting to it. Like a herd of turtles,
sweet Nance was fond of saying. Get on
with it! & his legs of slender, soft stretch,
his backside milkily, restfully squasht,
whilst pen in hand and sevenny $ words
come fluent from his lips that roseate
& plump, like Ginsberg's maybe, Jewish ?
Maybe. Sans the vast Dovidic beard,
suave of chin & cheek, & mild of jowl,
past fifty, certainly, perhaps. I couldn't
tell you, nor is it any of my business—
I mean, your business. A gin & lemon
some servantly, obsequious hand prepared
I would were mine: gentleman's gentleman.
Loudmouth soup in the wrong bear-hand,
but cheering heart in his, the olive plump,
& smooth and round, of a certain tang:
Mediterranean: O thick with oil,
thou passion fruit, thou heavy greene
& lovely morsel, wich hast struck my fancy
at this so late a… nevermind. A fillip
of a finger, a flick, will send that d'evil out,
Out, damned spot! But speak. Be silent. Speak.
Give me one day, my Lord, a single day
in my yong selfe, one brief & certain space
of waking thocht or dreame, w/o that now
that stirs my heart. Nycthemeron. O Lord.
I learnt a word before. I kneel befor Thee.
Robert I met, or listend to, he said,
at a reading, we have decided to speak
of this, later, a wateringhole-cum -grill,
and he w penny loafers—so I tappt
at first in a prose telling, long sent
to the quasi-oblivion of over-written
cyber flotsam, but not vanisht:I type,
reiterating Duncan, who, by the by,
is not the Bob of whom I speak. That
is sheer co-inky-dink, Popeye wd say,
also:I yam what I yam; O Olive Oyl:
[Sofia] Sophia, the love of wisdom,
which is not knowledge: the skinny
one on the train, for God's alive inside
a movie, and prophets live, are subtle,
not bold, not naked, like Isaiah,
who walkt fur three years in Jerusalem,
nor Jeremiah, who walkd w arms confind
and lived to tell it to Baruch. Baruch !
—and long, lean legs in spruce gray slacks
& black socks, checkerd, hmm, no hint
of ankle, which reminds us of Keats's
Calidore, was it. I refuse to check.
An Induction to a sumpinrudder,
as Estlin peckt, of rich & sensuous lines
that prophesied the coming genius
of one who knew his place in the hallowd
heirarchy of English bards & Scotch
reviewers, to hearken to another genius,
alpha more than beta ? Whither was I ?
You were getting to it. Like a herd of turtles,
sweet Nance was fond of saying. Get on
with it! & his legs of slender, soft stretch,
his backside milkily, restfully squasht,
whilst pen in hand and sevenny $ words
come fluent from his lips that roseate
& plump, like Ginsberg's maybe, Jewish ?
Maybe. Sans the vast Dovidic beard,
suave of chin & cheek, & mild of jowl,
past fifty, certainly, perhaps. I couldn't
tell you, nor is it any of my business—
I mean, your business. A gin & lemon
some servantly, obsequious hand prepared
I would were mine: gentleman's gentleman.
Loudmouth soup in the wrong bear-hand,
but cheering heart in his, the olive plump,
& smooth and round, of a certain tang:
Mediterranean: O thick with oil,
thou passion fruit, thou heavy greene
& lovely morsel, wich hast struck my fancy
at this so late a… nevermind. A fillip
of a finger, a flick, will send that d'evil out,
Out, damned spot! But speak. Be silent. Speak.
Give me one day, my Lord, a single day
in my yong selfe, one brief & certain space
of waking thocht or dreame, w/o that now
that stirs my heart. Nycthemeron. O Lord.
I learnt a word before. I kneel befor Thee.
12.5.13
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