Leopards Swim Deplorably


The following was composed upon a recent morn wheretofore I dreamt of an all-night, London Summer Display-induced sauna with Timothy Leary. In the dream he asked, “Have you any Miffly?” to which I anxiously replied, “I’m sorry, but we’ve only Scotch Giffly,” and my words echoed through the little closet as though it were the lesser caverns in the Sea of Tranquility. Leary, to his credit, begged off, and who could blame him? Chapeau, sans chapeau: Giffly, in a lunar hat-box?

my dear Timothy Leary;

i still see you lounging in that failed sauna
–and mightn’t it just start up at any moment?
the eternal tension,
held in check
by the
Light Speed Dispenser
and all i wanted was,
well,
we sometimes can’t give utterance,
but, sure, lady flesh, something’s flesh,
wrestling on the rim of the well,
throughout the long, dark night,
but the tension is that
Lord Sweet Diablo
doesn’t want those things,
no,
the
Liquid Salad Days
wants
a harmony more akin to childhood,
without the lust,
without
the
pleasures of the damned,
without, it seems,
replication.

and yet, and yet,
the
Little Swift Dove
does
somehow
place a beacon
at the crossroads
of time and memory,
a bookmark
in the mind,
“lessee, here, where was i?
oh, yess! the night, the night,
the night” (kjhfkuh) which loops
like a sand-drenched 8-track,
over it plays:
the dark,
the sudden bursts of light,
the chill and warp of deep space,
the immediacy of a banal urination,
just outside the door,
the questions, the questions,
always the same,
“is someone in there?”
and the intention,
the near-honesty
of being on the
inside
and
suggesting,
“no,
no-one at all,”
and it is no lie
at that late hour,
it is coming from a place
of complete honesty,
that there is nothing social to offer,
that contact is NOT desired,
and, besides,
this is no mere sauna attached to a toilet,
it is a tardis,
it is a pocket (the secret pocket)
in the cosmic trousers,
it is an organelle (as yet unnamed, a lesser organelle)
in the ballooning cell-tumour
on the neck
of an unsuspecting
elder statesman,
THE elder statesman
who drafted NAFTA
who put the finishing touches in the Agent Orange,
who stinks of impunity
UNTIL NOW…

yes, it has been some time,
but
THE
WOODEN
SPACESHIP
THE WOODEN
SPACESHIP THE
WOODEN SPACESHIP
THE WOODEN SPACECHIMP
THE WODEN’S SPATS DIP THE WOOLEN MACE GRIP THE GOULDEN FATE BRIDGE THE
(way this horizonticality could just as readily be verticality and then we’d have come to the wall the lining the membrane on the bananend of the universe–near the NEW MATERIAL ONLY tag just like the universe the cell the sauna to break down–iffenwhen you pour your drinks in there)
WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS
MARQUISDESADE THE
MURDER OF MARAT
ESCAPE IN
ESPA-
DR-
IL-
L-
E-
S

dear sir,
the morning light.

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