Where dying is ecstasy --
(I've dipped my finger into it;
tempted it; had a figment face ask me,
do you wish to know it now?
and it is always an answer 'no'
not even from my lips, not even from my own mind --
from somewhere unknowable;
where a force unseen and quiet
knows my fate, can see over the great unholy horizon)
-- living lets say, living
is mostly dragging heels, and I understand how a man
could become a liar.
How else will he rub himself against wet cunt
-- in this age of isolation -- ?
-- in a room of twice-fertilized women -- ?
except to say 'Call me Ishmael,'
to the supposed intellect, the poet
who couldn't even quote Dylan (myself, I was seen
to be a liar, but it was careless
to open my mouth and then
to keep it closed when asked to prove it)
so he rows around the library
with his mouth full of another man's words.
Liar, you do not read, you covet.
Liar, you have no original tongue.
Liar, I have conspired against you
both sexually and intellectually.
Come with us poets into the ink sea
where ugly women do not frighten men
because the lungs are filled with dust and ink
and the loins are always red and throbbing!
Come, liar! Come in with your long blonde hair
(you think this makes you look ambiguous)!
Come in with your forced haughty dialect
(you have been practicing for years)!
Come in with your sexless woman,
your literature major and your poor grammar!
Come in with your lies of novel-writing
and do not mention the book I wrote for you!
Please, this book I've written could have revived my corpse,
but Ashley, great white wonder! -- let it be my death!
Let it be the violin in my eye!