£3 book of Berryman’s poems + £2.95 Frappucino + £1.05 for three shiny Braeburn apples = good to know simple happiness (literature, caffeine & apples) can be bought for £7. If only there were a decent second-hand record store closer by, I’d go pick up some unlikely old Nick Cave album, and then, having spent ten whole pounds, die overdosing on an ecstasy not to be found in little white pills.
Bukowski was a jerk, Berryman was best:
He wrote like wet papier-mâché, but he went the Hemmingway…
Perhaps a person shouldn’t choose their poetry based on Nick Cave links, but there are far worse words to follow. Pretty darn procrastinating now by gourging on these poems and gouging out all the precious marvels they hold nestled inside as bright and as strange in the mouth as pomegranate seeds, devouring them with such haste that the light pink juice that seeps out of genius when pressed to bursting dribbles down my face, this being the absolutely shameless poetic glutton I am - again, there are worse ways to procrastinate.
Sigh as it ends .. I keep an eye on your
Amour with Scotch, - too cher to consumate;
Faster your disappearing beer than late-
ly mine; your naked passion for the floor;
Your hollow leg; your hanker for one more
Dark as the Sundam Trench; how you dilate
Upon psychotics of this class, collate
Stages, and .. how long since you, well, forbore.Ah, but the high fire sings on to be fed
Whipping our darkness by the lifting sea
A while, O darling drinking like a clock.
The tide comes on: spare, Time, from what you spread
Her story, - tilting a frozen Daiquiri,
Blonde, barefoot, beautiful, flat on the bare floor rivetted to Bach.
