Dream Song 84

His Toy, His Dream, His Rest (1969)

Op. posth. no. 7

plop, plop. The lobster toppled in the pot,fulfilling, dislike man, his destiny,glowing fire-red,succulent, and on the whole becoming whatman wants. I crack my final claw singly,wind up the grave, & to bed.

—Sound good, Mr Bones. I wish I had me some.(I spose you got a lessen up your slave.)—O no no no.Sole I remember; where no lobster swine,—pots hot or cold is none. With you I grievelightly, and I have no lesson.

Bodies are relishy, they say. Here’s mine,was. What ever happened to Political Economy,leaving me here?Is a rare—in my opinion—responsibility.The military establishments perpetuate themselves forever.Have a bite, for a sign.

His Toy, His Dream, His Rest (1969)