What about all this writing?
O “Kiki”
O Miss Margaret Jarvis
The backhandspring
I: clean
clean
clean: yes . . New-York
Wrigley's, appendicitis, John Marin:
skyscraper soup--
either that or a bullet!
Once
anything might have happened
you lay relaxed on my knees--
the starry night
spread out warm and blind
above the hospital--
Pah!
it is unclean
which is not straight to the mark--
in my life the furniture eats me
the chairs, the floor
the walls
which heard your sobs
drank up my emotion--
they which alone know everything
and snitched on us in the morning--
what to want?
drunk we go forward surely
not i
beds, beds, beds
elevators, fruit, night-tables
breasts to see, white and blue--
to hold in the hand, to nozzle
it is not onion soup
your sobs soaked through the walls
breaking the hospital to pieces
everything
--windows, chairs
obscenely drunk, spinning--
white, blue, orange
--hot with our passion
wild tears, desperate rejoinders
my legs, turning slowly
end over end in the air!
but what would you have?
all i said was:
there, you see, it is broken
stockings, shoes, hairpins
your bed, i wrapped myself round you--
i watched.
you sobbed, you beat your pillow
you tore your heair
you dug your nails into your sides
i was your nightgown
i watched!
clean is he alone
after whom stream
the broken pieces of the city--
flying apart at his approaches
but i merely
caress you curiously
fifteen years ago and you still
go about the city, they say
patching up sick school children
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