foolishsilvia:
Death by Water
foolishsilvia:
A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers.
foolishsilvia:
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss.
foolishsilvia:
The river's tent is broken; the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank.
foolishsilvia:
Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road
foolishsilvia:
Here one can neither stand not lie nor sit
foolishsilvia:
The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
foolishsilvia:
'Do 'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember 'Nothing?'
foolishsilvia:
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? 'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'
foolishsilvia:
I think we are in rats' alley 115 Where the dead men lost their bones. 'What it that noise?' The wind under the door. 118 'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?' Nothing again nothing.
foolishsilvia:
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
foolishsilvia:
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish?
foolishsilvia:
One must be so careful these days. Unreal City, 60 Under the brown fog of a winter dawn
foolishsilvia:
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
foolishsilvia:
The hot water at ten. And if it rains, a closed car at four. And we shall play a game of chess
foolishsilvia:
But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
foolishsilvia:
'What shall I do now? What shall I do?' 'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street 'With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow? 'What shall we ever do?'
foolishsilvia:
A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
foolishsilvia:
White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year.
foolishsilvia:
Unreal City Under the brown fog of a winter noon