Having my way with Ulysses

Decoy. Soft Word. But look: the bright stars fade.

No life on earth can be hid from our dreaming.3:45 pm

[Scene: Lidia Doce y Mina Kennedy are hiding behind their bar counter drinking maté]

Lidia Doce:  Carajo como jodes!  What the hell’d you do that for?

Mina Kennedy:  Is that really a sunburn?  You just look darker brown.

Lidia:  Yes it’s a goddamn sunburn, what do you think?

Mina:  I don’t know, you just don’t look very red.  Oh wait, those are blisters.

Lidia:  Estupida gringa.  Burns only look red on pink people.  Hands to yourself.  Now, let’s pick some music, lure them into our green mirror.  Maybe some old chicha or cumbia, or reggaeton?

Mina:  More of that Peruvian crap?  Maybe later.  How about this:


Lidia:  Why this?  Purple.  What does purple have to do with anything?

Mina:  Nothing.

Lidia:  Perfect.  Anything, nothing, doesn’t matter.  We’ll say what we’ll say.

Mina:  Right.  The material is immaterial.  Besides, if you want purple, look around.  Look out that window:  Ned Lambert, Maginni, Boylan, Molly’s garters.

Lidia:  You been looking up her dress?

Mina:  Of course.  I look everywhere.  So do you.

Lidia:  Fine.  Fair enough.  I don’t even know what the damn song is about but whatever, we’ll use it.  Ok.  So.  Yeah.  Ha.   4/4 time signature.  Simple, common, and imperfect.  Perfect.

Mina:  We’ll divide it into 16 parts, obviously.

Lidia:  Obviously.  La la la la la lah.

Mina:  Then we stretch it, say 16 days.  Symmetry.  See what that gets us.

Lidia:  How does that get us anything?  Your helmet blocking your brain?

Mina:  It’s a matter of time.

Lidia:  That’s better.  Tempo.  Let’s tell some time.  And Mina, try to look human this time.  We don’t want them knowing we’re.

Mina: Yeah, no we don’t.

Lidia:  Ready?  Cleave!

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

I knows

Hey Virgin Mary, lover of lovers / Hey Virgin Mary, how many others / Hey Virgin Mary, your bed is never empty / Hey Virgin Mary, it must bring you plenty.

3:52 pm


Come to me.  Come on now, let me get that speck out of your eye.  Let mama take care of you.  Over here my baby.  What’s that you gathering, figs?  From thorns?  Didn’t anybody ever tell you not to do that?  Don’t worry, pobre, let mama have you now.  I’ve had my eye on you baby.  On your other eye.  I saw you poking your nose up under those statues.  Trying to get in there with your goggle eye.  Your eye, your nose.  But you got caught by that young little punk ass motherfucker.  Oh did I shock you?  It’s the company I keep.  O the saints above me!  And the ones behind me too.  I feel all wet just watching your reaction.  You remind me of Nannetti’s father, turning me upside down to have a look under my blue robe.  He made money selling my body: religion pays.  Oh you look delicious.  You want mama to shock you a little more?  Not yet.  Eat first.  Have some sweets of sin for mama (for Raoul) then you can stick your nose up my blue robe, white under, purple silk petticoats under that.  Listen.  4:00 is coming, baby, you know what that means.  Clockhands are turning.  Time ever passing.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

None nought said nothing.

In the tenth book of the Republic, eight Sirens preside over the revolution of the eight concentric spheres of the heavens. "Siren: an imaginary marine animal," we read in one particularly uncouth dictionary.3:56 pm


Simon.  Simon.  You hear me.  It’s me again, into the porches of your ear I’ll pour.   You hear me, but nobody else does.  It can be our little secret honey.  Go ahead, busy yourself with me.  Blow out my ashes.  Once.  Twice.  There you go.  Now finger your tobacco a little.  Two fingers.  Good boy.  Mmm.  Fondle me with those two fingers maybe?  That’s it.  Yes.  How naughty of you, poor simple Simon.  Rub me a little more, my maidenhair.  Mina Kennedy can’t see you, and Lidia is pretending not to look.  Listen to her sing.

Yes.  A little Latina sabor.  A little something else too.  Feeling thirsty?  You can order a whiskey from her.  Mmm.  Don’t worry about skinny Dilly or Boody or any of them.  They have your five dollars and some change.  Never mind that now.  Just fill me up baby and listen to Lidia.  Dry in here.  How about some nice fresh water and a little whiskey to keep it company.  Here’s Lenehan.  Listen to him.  Your son’s been buying drinks.  He has an income he isn’t sharing with you.  Yes.  You need a drink after hearing this.  Go ahead baby, just a half glass.  Wet your whistle, I won’t tell.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

The bright stars fade

The weaver-god, he weaves; and by that weaving is he deafened, that he hears no mortal voice; and by that humming, we, too, who look on the loom are deafened; and only when we escape it shall we hear the thousand voices that speak through it.... Ah, mortal! then be heedful; for so, in all this din of the great world's loom, thy subtlest thinkings may be overheard afar.

4:00 pm


They have the same effect on all of them.  Lure them in, smile, make them think they’re the only pebble on the beach.  Screaming laughter after they’ve gone.  God bless my deaf ears.  Those two Delilah’s in there don’t realize that they’ll be old crones soon enough.  Beauty fades, and fast.  Sucker them in, girls, better land one before he he he realizes what you are about.  Then God’s curse on the bitch’s bastard.  Ruffled their feathers it did, that that kid piano tuner, blind as he is, paid them no notice at all.  Proved their invisibility to them.  They don’t exist unless they think they have a man wanting whatever beauty they possess under those scales.  Play a man like a fiddle.  Look at Kennedy there, ignoring that one for all she’s worth.  That’s an art, boys, that takes some skill.  Drives them wild every damn time.  She knows what they want.  And that other one stretching over him with the clocks on his socks sipping that violet syrupy nonsense.  He’s a male version of them getting Doce’s best show, snapping her bra, ringing in the hour.  Let’s hear the time.  Twelve men a day or she’s not happy.  Flatter them, then cling with chipped talons and devour them whole.  Maneaters.  Customers coming in, two, middling in age.  They’ll take a table with a view: want to see, not be seen.  Married, likely.  They’ll watch and won’t realize their own deafness until they leave.  Poor bastards.  They’ll hear the music, though, and why not?  They have memory and anticipation, same as you.  Same as me.  I hear it.  I hear the music all the time: voiceless songs sung from within.  Sometimes I go for the old slow blues numbers: Ray Charles in the day; Eartha Kitt, Miss Kitt to you.  When I want to pick it up a bit I hear the big bands.  Benny Goodman and his orchestra doing Sing Sing Sing.  In my mind, mind.  I expect; I remember.  Feeling a little allegretto.  Going to run some Louis Prima between my ears for a while.


You’re bothering me.  Get out of my head, I have customers to serve.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Taunted them still, bending, suspending, with wilfull eyes.

But they -- lovelier than ever -- stretched their necks and turned, let their awesome hair flutter free in the wind, and freely stretched their claws on the rocks. They no longer had any desire to allure; all that they wanted was to hold as long as they could the radiance that fell from Ulysses' great eyes. If the Sirens had possessed consciousness they would have been annihilated at that moment. But they remained as they had been; all that had happened was that Ulysses had escaped them.4:04 pm


I’m drowning again.  A slow cool green drop through the mirror.  A dim seagreen sliding shadow.  Depths.  Why did he leave just after?  I had him too.  I had him smackwarm against my smackable, no contest.  The odds were in my favor.  Then he left so fast.  He was boiling then gone just like that.  Maybe I was too silent.  Maybe.  Well.  I know it’s useless to wonder.  And useless to feel the drowning, but I feel it, the fluxing inwardness of dim seagreen filling my useless lungs.  I’m sinking again.  At the bottom of the dim seagreen I start my decline.  I’ve done this before.  Throw me a life ring will you?  I can hear that sob of breath, are you drowning too?  Do your disappointments sink you too?  You’re crying for nothing.  Ever heard that?  Anybody ever anywhere sing those words to you?  You’re crying for nothing.  It’s my chorus.  Everything and nothing.  Same thing.  If it is ineffable, is it nothing or everything?  Speak to me.  No.  Save your breath.  What words could you possibly say?  But I suppose you feel you must because silence is so brutally negating.  Such violence in silence.  I know you drown sometimes too.  But I see you.  I can see you.  I hear you too.  Come on now, pull yourself out.  You’re not as invisible as you think.  Hold on baby.  I’m standing right here.  Listen to me.  You gotta hold on.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Love or money

Ay mi pobre hija, se van a quemar juntos en el infierno.

4:08 pm


These two bitches been doing a shit job of things. I see luring but no devouring. Where’s the devouring? Why I leave girls to do a woman’s job? Move over, all of you, let me through. Mama’ll fix this mess. Lidia, ready to kill herself over that one just left. He’s on his way to a real sirena baby, go play sad music and cry. Stupida. Where’s your sanity? Stand up straight! God give me patience these girls make me crazy. Who told you to warm him up for somebody else to finish off? Did all her work for her. She’s a better singer too. She knows what sells. Think. Remember when she was selling clothes? And singing in bars. What do you think made her money, eh? Those old theatre rags don’t sells themselves, you see people lining up for that? It was the men. The men. The men she lured singing. Learn something. And Mina. Who you going to get standing there doing nothing? Look at that fatso there slapping that piano with his meat hands. He knows. Or that fake priest who helped him knows: put on tight pants when you sing to the girls. It’s not the voice it’s the body. Even a fatty like him. Come on chicas! Why is it taking men to teach you a job you should know by instinct? Listen to these guys:


They know their business, ya. They’ll eat you alive then drag your soul to hell and you’ll want more. Listen to their promises. Even I’d take my panties off for them. Get your shit together. Now Lidia don’t cry. An idiot who leaves just like that isn’t worth throwing yourself away over. Mi pobre hija. I just want you to get them to come to you, to see you with their own will. Now enough of this, you give me a pain deep in my heart. You have work to do and another one coming in. You get him, ok? Enough tears chica, you make yourself crazy over nothing and me with you. Now go.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

A lady’s grace, gave and withheld.

To take care of oneself one must only study what is really useful in and for existence. Diogenes Laertius quotes these remarks of Diogenes the Cynic. The latter “was surprised to see the grammarians devote so much study to the morals of Ulysses, and to neglect their own, to see musicians tune their lyre so well, and forget to tune their soul, to see mathematicians study the sun and moon, and forget what is beneath their feet, to see orators full of zeal for speaking well, but never pressed to act well.”4:12 pm


Oh Christ why did they mount me next to the piano.  I may be inanimate, but I can still smell that one’s breath.  Ick.  And what kind of priest wears a beard?  Why didn’t they mount me in the dining room.  That one with the kidney disease eating kidneys (sweets to the sweet) has very nice breath.  He doesn’t take care of himself either, though.  Orders expensive whiskey then sends his son sir I did sir begging for money.  Hm.  At least I get to watch those two alive ones at work.  they get to move around.  Be warm, be moist.  I have to charm from my wall.  Lidia faded a bit but she’s back.  Look at her.  Holding that new one’s hand.  Yes.  Entice him.  Let him think he is the player and we are their harps.  Leave me here to hang around over the stench.  No problem.  It’s not like I have a choice or anything.  Oh my aching back.  Please, somebody give the guy a mint, some gum, an Altoid.  Something.  He does know music, I suppose he does have that.  But look around at all this disappointment.  Makes me want to fall right off the wall and crush myself.  Or somebody else.  That could be amusing.  Piano sounds nice, that tuner will have to come back for his tuning fork.  I could have told him; I saw it right there.  But nobody can hear me.  Well, except for you.  I exist.  And I know what it takes for me to exist.  I have studied existence, I get it.  All these broken people singing here, wrecked upon the bar reef, eating in the dining room.  Waiting.  Focusing their attention on the music.  They don’t know their danger.  Would be better for them to focus on their own lives and households.  They each think all is lost.  That’s the song they hear, no matter what tune they play.  But will they be persuaded to save themselves?  As easy stop the sea.  You who read me, can you be persuaded to save yourself?  What do you hear?

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Like no voice of strings or reeds or whatdoyoucallthem

Let everie sound of a pitch keep still in resonance, jemcrow, jackdaw, prime and secund with their terce that whoe betwides them, now full theorbe, now dulcifair, and we press of pedal (sof!) pick out and vowelise your name.

4:17 pm



Dulcimers.  Very subtle, the strings can be.  Some instruments stand in the way you know.  Not in the way of the strings, you know that.  In the way of what’s the word?  Damn the ineffable.  It’s not about the music or the words, they mean nothing.  It’s what’s behind it.  Under it.  Turtles all the way down under it.  Get out of the way.  Stand aside sugarstick.  Not like Diogenes laying out next to his tub.  Getting a little tan.  You, Alexander, yeah you, Emperor of Everything and Nothing, you’re standing in my light.  Shoo!  Get lost wouldja.  O all sorts get in front, but laying down under the music: the bleeding and the breathingness.  Just as sure as you breathe on me now.  Fogging up the glass.  So sweet.  Keeping time, listening.  Anybody can play the music, say the words, listen to that.  Just as anybody can make love with anybody else.  You with me maybe?  Could be anybody, a knock on the door.  Maybe me.  Last check in the mirror before opening.  What perfume?  Then hands on her heaving, felt for opulent.  And so on and so when and so what.   An ordinary duet.  Laying down under that, resting itself is a whisper small. Co-ome, thou lost one.  There you are baby, welcome.  It’s me.  It’s us.  Come closer yes.  Take a little bite, let’s make a new language.  Then aching exhilarating poetry into the everything and the nothing. There’s a subtlety to the art of love, the approach for an embrace giving your beloved a gaze run liquid over over over the body with appreciation like a hymn to the allwhen.  The crashing waves like cymbals clash against the rocks and sands.  Small adjustments here and here to your lover’s  movements, oh your breath.  The tender embrace, like touching an infant.  Or with a forcefulness, a violent passion painful but just on this side of damage.  Just a touch away from harm endlessnessnessness.  The dilation of blood and of when.  That first night at Mat Dillon’s party.  Her name.  The music then, fate.  Luring.  Luring me!  Wouldn’t expect it in the least.  Her Spanishy eyes.  The smell of Peru.  That’s the life of it: that I’ll never know what to give her.  What to promise?  How to ask without words.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Musemathematics. And you think you’re listening to the etherial.

Be but in tune with yourself, madam, 'tis no matter how high or how low you take it.4:21 pm


Mathematics is not arithmetic.  Is that what you thought?  Oh my darling.  Arithmetic is  2*2/2=1+1.  That’s just juggling numbers.  But please, my delightful, look around you.  Go ahead.  light on something.  That is not a something, that is a collection of number in relationships, in patterns, whispering the universal language.  Some people, eccentrics mostly bless their hearts, think God is an external force.  Now I know my dear that you know better.  God is universal harmony perceived through number.  And if God is this universal harmony perceived through number, and play along, then time is the soul of God.  But don’t listen to me, who am I?  I am only God.  Listen to this:


Hear that?  Numbers.  Music is the voice of mathematics.  Go look in the mirror (haven’t we done this before?) and open your mouth wide.  Look in there, all the way in.  Two tiny silky chords, wonderful, more than all others: the human voice.  Vibrate those little silky strings and out comes number.  Double that number and there you are, one octave higher.  Divide it in half, one octave lower.  An octave is the sound of the number 2.  Divide by 3 and you get the musical fifth, the fifth note on the scale.  Bald deaf Pat brought quite flat pad ink.  Quite.  Octaves and fifths love to make love.  Men and women, when left undisturbed, naturally sing a 5th apart.  Harmonious.  The number 4 = 2*2 = the second octave.  The number 5 is the musical third  (Pat.  Glorious that symmetry under the cemetery wall).   Bald Pat Quite: a chord.  You want a little dissonance?  Try the numbers 7, 11, and 13.  Heavy mojo in those numbers.  I don’t even want to tell you about the number 20. Want to get a little irrational?  Play the strings.  Guitar frets are placed according to the 12th root of 2.  Oh the numbers.  Durations of notes have ratios too.  And now we get into geometry.  Oh my beauteous ones.  If I could only tell you.  Or show you.  Or sing you.  Or touch you.  Or taste you.  If only.  Then I will never leave you.  And you will never leave me.  We can entwine in mathematical harmonies and whisper eternality into each other’s vibrating tympanic membranes.  You will weave patterns with your body and look in triangular mirrors.  But then you will see God and leave me to suffer.  Snivel.  Big spanishy eyes goggling at nothing.  Wavyavyeavyheavyeavyevyevyhair un comb:’d.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Too poetical that about the sad. Music did that.

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast, To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak. I've read, that things inanimate have mov'd, And, as with living Souls, have been inform'd, By Magick Numbers and persuasive Sound. What then am I? Am I more senseless grown Than Trees, or Flint? O force of constant Woe! 'Tis not in Harmony to calm my Griefs. Anselmo sleeps, and is at Peace; last Night The silent Tomb receiv'd the good Old King; He and his Sorrows now are safely lodg'd Within its cold, but hospitable Bosom. Why am not I at Peace?


4:25 pm


Dear sir Mady,

Got your note cute as a rat and flower where the hell did I put it some pocket or other it is utterly impossible to write today.  Bore this, my patience are exhausted.  I’m just reflecting on you know what I mean.  Don’t make half so free.  Accept my poor little present attached ’till we are better acquainted.  Might be what you like.  Elijah is coming really and truly.  Write me a long answer.  Do you despise me?  Have you the horn?  I’m so excited why do you call me naughty?  You naughty too?  O dirty Mairy lost the string of her drawers.  Bye for today.  Yes, yes, I will tell you what perfume.  Time makes the tune.  I want you to keep it up, call me that other world.  You must believe it is true.  I swear to Saint Cecilia, best references, it will excite me.  You know how.

In haste,
Henry what is he playing now.

ps.  Who will you pun punish me.  Whack.  Tell me I want to know, of course if I didn’t I wouldn’t ask, but why is the minor sad?  Feel lost.

pps.  la la la re I feel so sad today so lonely.

Messrs. Callan Coleman and Co., limited.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

What are the wild waves saying?

The glass was green water, and she a mermaid, slung with pearls, a siren in a cave, singing so that oarsmen leant from their boats and fell down, down to embrace her; so dark, so bright, so hard, so soft, was she, so astonishingly seductive that it was a thousand pities that there was no one there to put it in plain English, and say outright "Damn it Madam, you are loveliness incarnate," which was the truth. 4:30 pm



Stop.  Do you see the woman with the seashell?  She’s pretending to hear the ocean in a shell, holding it to the man’s ear.  He’s pretending too.  She found the shell with a gentleman friend she tells her gentleman friend.  Perfect tempo.  They are listening to their own blood moving, an echo in a kind of retrospective arrangement.  The corpuscles moving nicely in the man now.  There’s blood in the water.  Competition: a perfect chord. She’s doing well. Hiding her ears with seaweed hair, exposing to place the shell, now hiding again.  Neck: brief exposure.  Her proportions perfect, he speaks, she waits, speaks.  All done in precise phi ratios.  The ratio of the F holes to the violin’s upper and lower pins, the ratio of the woman’s waist to her hips, the ratio of perfect mathematical harmonies in a scale, the ratio of his desire to hers, yes, that’s the important one, as it moves through time.  She calculates nicely the ratio of her eyes above the sheet to the face remaining hidden, the speed of her corpuscles to his.  Patience and timing.  Rhythm.  Like waves on a beach.  She knows her business now.  Lean in baby, mathematically you could be much closer.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

My ear against the wall to hear.

All day I hear the noise of waters Making moan, Sad as the sea-bird is when, going Forth alone,He hears the winds cry to the water's Monotone. The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing Where I go. I hear the noise of many waters Far below. All day, all night, I hear them flowing To and fro.4:34 pm



Chamber music: a book of poems I read once by Paul de Kock.  As good as piss and a relief when done.  She’s probably peeing now.  Hisss.  Now.  Tinkle inkleinkle persec persec. Before the knock a cock cock on her door.  Making chamber music.  Fill me, I am warm, dark, open.  Acoustics best with an empty vessel.  Water doesn’t absorb sound.  Music underwater goes for miles; if we were drowning I’d hear her now.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Mirror there.

At times in the evenings a face looks at us out of the depths of a mirror; Art should be like that mirror Which reveals to us our own face. They say that Ulysses, sated with marvels, Wept tears of love at the sight of his Ithaca, Green and humble. Art is that Ithaca Of green eternity, not of marvels. It is also like the river with no end That flows and remains and is the mirror of one same Inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same And is another, like the river with no end.4:38 pm

Proportio dupla


I’m no expert at it, but I’m good at feeling anyone looking at me. I’ll gaze this way. Yes. Gaze far sidewise. I see something thoughtfully just there, past the wall. Look at how deep thinking I am, mouth slightly parted, longing eyes. Not sure which is my best side. Move slowly, with the music just a little closer, almost there. Yes. Mirror. Now both sides are facing, yet I present the unapproachable profile. Irresistable. I feel you in the air. The weight of your gaze resonates according to your distance from my profile. Perfect. I’m busy looking far out this way, so you can busy yourself looking at me. Watch me breathe. Deep breathing from the chest. In through the nose, out through the slightly parted mouth. Makes my lips pucker just enough, fills out that bottom one. You are still looking. I can tell. I’m still gazing over there but farther now. I’m gazing into a distance so far so far. I gaze erotically into the other side of the world. Longingly. Soulfully. I’m not your average run of the mill. Not in the same way that Cowley isn’t a priest. More like how the guy in the song isn’t a priest. But don’t think about that. Just gazing soulfully next to the mirror so you can gaze openly. Take your time. I can do this as long as it takes.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Philosophy. O Rocks!

Spinoza believed that all things wish to go on being what they are -- stone wishes eternally to be stone, and tiger to be tiger.4:43 pm


I remember.  I remember.  That night in the box Michael Gunn gave us, listening to the tuning, its’ own music like feeding time at the zoo.  That clown in box above with his lens staring down into Molly’s dress and she on the edge of her seat listening to me.  Me.  I told her about Spinoza, exiled Jew, glass in his lungs.  Imagine a worm in the blood, he said, a tiny worm that can see corpuscles moving and colliding and rubbing together, flowing.  The worm would think each particle of blood its own part, not a whole fluid stream coursing in and out of bodies.  Just like us.  We are parts in relationship together, part of an infinite whole.  Or we are the worm, maybe, seeing everyone else as parts wanting to be the infinite whole.  Or wanting to be worms. Or a bee.  A bee sing stinging and drawing blood, one corpuscle at a time OW!  And our mind is part of a larger intellect or is the worm that is to say bee listening in to the parts and has to listen again to know it is a song.  She was riveted.  Hardly moved a muscle.  Beestung lips.  I sounded like this:

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

A liquid womb of woman eyeball.

The world, when still in peril, thought that, wheeling, in the third epicycle, Cyprian the fair sent down her rays of frenzied love, so that, in ancient error, ancient peoples not only honored her with sacrifices and votive cries, but honored, too, Dione and Cupid, one as mother, one as son of Cyprian, and told how Cupid sat in Dido's lap; and gave the name of her with whom I have begun this canto, to the planet that is courted by the sun, at times behind her and at times in front. 4:47 pm


Well I can’t leave now, look at her.  Her eyes, my eyes.  She sees I’ve been watching, it’s in that blank face.  Must be a virgin.  Or fingered only.  She sees me, her hand, look, moving on the beer pull.  Thumb, index and midfinger softly feeling its shape.  Practiced unconscious, expert.  For me.  Me.  No wait.  Lidwell there, not for me.  Yet she knows, my eyes, her eyes.  His eyes.  Liquid eyeball, can see her beauty in her eye when no words.  Her hand moving her fingers making a hole.  Your hand was thin.  Your hand was stiff.  Three holes, women.  Those goddesses three.  Holes?  Didn’t see.  Interrup.  Young goddess.  Milly too, with a young student.  Like him, probably.


Women like money and rough treatment.  That’s why.  That must be why.  Take them into the bushes and there lay until the morning.  My dreams were white but life is so dark.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Greeting in Going

I give, a king, to me, she does, alone, up there, yes see, I double give, till the spinney all eclosed asong with them. Isn't that lovely though? I give to me alone I trouble give! I may have no mind to lamagnage the forte bits like the pianage but you can't cage me off the key.

4:51 pm


Rose: Have you the horn?

Satiny Bosom: Bloowho?

The Fondling Hand:  Better get this job over quick.

Slops:  Hold that fellow with the bad trousers.  Hold him now.

Empties:  Empty vessels make most noise.  He feels so lonely.

Popped Corks:   He’s suffering the agony of the damned.

Eyes:  Looks a fright in the day.

Maidenhair:  Sigh.  Lord we are weary.

Bronze:  True men like you men.

Faintgold in Deepseashadow:  I feel so lonely.

Mermaid:  Everything is dear if you don’t want it.  That’s what a good siren is.  Make you buy what she wants to sell.

Tuning Fork:  All is lost now.

Beer Pull:  In cups of rocks it slops.

Shell:  [With vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks] Seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos.

Passepartout:  You have made a mistake of one day.

Lozgechkin:  Let his epitaph be written.

Sardine Sandwich:  It is the little rift within the lute that by and by will make the music mute, and ever widening slowly silence all.

(Glad I avoided.)

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

Damn her. O, well, she has to live like the rest.

They mouth love's language. Gnash The thirteen teeth Your lean jaws grin with. Lash Your itch and quailing, nude greed of the flesh. Love's breath in you is stale, worded or sung, As sour as cat's breath, Harsh of tongue. This grey that stares Lies not, stark skin and bone. Leave greasy lips their kissing. None Will choose her what you see to mouth upon. Dire hunger holds this hour. Pluck forth your heart, saltblood, a fruit of tears, Pluck and devour!4:55 pm

Undante umoroso. M. 50-50.


Well now look at that one, pretending he don’t see me. I knew his woman, whatsis, fat singer wore the brown costume. Wouldn’t you like to know how. I should say his name, make him look at me. Look at me. Now when did I first see that form endearing? Yes, raining in some street fuck knows where. Woof he stinks! Passing the silent and deadly. Thinks nobody notices. I can see him looking at me through the back of his head. Sees my reflection in the window too. Coward. I’ll let it pass. This time. Thinks he’ll never see me again. Hardly ever. I have done, for now.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.