If You Like I'll Be Furious Flesh

Formerly I Believed Books Were Made Like This: A Poet Came, Lightly Opened His Lips, And The Inspired Fool Burst Into Song – If You Please! But It Seems, Before They Can Launch A Song, Poets Must Tramp For Days With Callused Feet, And The Sluggish Fish Of The Imagination Flounders Softly In The Slush Of The Heart. And While, With Twittering Rhymes, They Boil A Broth Of Loves And Nightingales, The Tongueless Street Merely Writhes For Lack Of Something To Shout Or Say

On The Pavement Of My Trampled Soul The Steps Of Madmen Weave The Prints Of Rude Crude Words.

If You Like I'll Be Furious Flesh Elemental, Or- Changing To Tones That The Sunset Arouses- If You Like- I'll Be Extraordinary Gentle, Not A Man But - A Cloud In Trousers.

There’s No Grandfatherly Fondness In Me, There Are No Gray Hairs In My Soul! Shaking The World With My Voice And Grinning, I Pass You By, - Handsome, Twentytwoyearold.

Gentle Souls! You Play Your Love On The Violin. The Crude Ones Play It On The Drums Violently. But Can You Turn Yourselves Inside Out, Like Me And Become Just Two Lips Entirely?