Never Doubt My Weakness

Insist that I’ve been wasting time, and space,
And never doubt my weakness. I’ve been sitting
With my huge head aching, minding my knitting,
My hands securely covering my face.
As an exemplar of the human race
I hit the low spots, hovering and spitting
In the air. Sure, I am thinking of quitting,
But not to choose some fine and private place.

I’m weak but not an idiot, uncouth
But not a licker of behinds, unjust
But not a chimney sweeper come to dust,
Devoted wholly since my misspent youth
To eating worms: no undue weight on truth,
No chance at love, no brains, no fear, no trust.

Excess of Corn

“Corn is the food of love, hard to resist,”
Begins the botanist. “Please note the genus.
If you should take some ears of corn to Venice
Remind yourself that there may be a twist:
Watch the canals for skulls, and shake your fist
At brainless fate. Remember poor St. Dennis
Who lost his head, ignoring the cruel menace
Of Roman goons who never had been kissed.”

“Corn is a tasty monocotyledon,”
He goes on, darkly. “Learning Botany
Will aid your love lives. I have family
In Uppsala, a holy place in Sweden,
Where Carl Linnaeus’s Garden of Eden
Ensures that every Swedish girl loves me.”

Whom I Adore

Her lips are razor thin, her smile is nasty,
Her attitude is itself cruelty,
Her skin is flaky like a Cornish pasty,
But her nails are everything to me.
She swears exactly like a drunken sailor,
Her greasy hair lies both uncombed and flat,
She’s been at odds with dressmaker and tailor
All through the last six years. Yes, she’s like that.
My arms and back are raw, and badly scarred,
Her bowlegs cry her personality,
She never lets me kiss her — soft or hard —
But I’m safe in my unreality.
Her eyes won’t level, her grip is terrible,
And losing her would be unbearable.

Geese, Villain

Don't speak to me about the fields of flowers
In the noonday sun, the daffodils
(A host!), the bluebirds and the whippoorwills,
The tall wheat grass, the prairie dog that cowers
In its little home, the April showers
And the summer solstice. The air fills
With natural sounds and sights, the peace that stills
Our busy hearts, Great Birnam Wood that towers —

Lord! I am sick of all this nonsense verse
Lamenting that our old ways have now passed,
The endless wittering as cracked and vast
As all outdoors. I say there’s nothing worse
Than hopes of our redemption from the curse
Of civilized places (hopes built to last).