Beerspit Night and Cursing (27 page)

the hand of silk tangling in and out of melodies runs in and out of vases and death runs eoyow!! down my throat like a mouse; the palm trees hold up the air of the poetry we breathe.

I don’t know—I meant to go on, becoming hrby wuckus-wacked by something less than gladiolie blurb or wot

buxome, I say, is the hore of horse clasp and hoof destroyed or not the rubber nose and mouth and skin

like the clasp of an ironing board…the final poem will be relaxed like some old castle burning.

daffodils viking bastards calm as frogs

x you bitch,

taking out the oh so comely sprite whore of hours

I am trying to find a girlfriend for Picasso.

…your remaining sex is my salvation like

the eyes of god in grapefruit

like arrows in the brain of a washed-away nightmare.

your X should be my X

and the little walk-away wrongs and worms from coffins must pleasantly wait their play.

like a coney-Island hot warbling buckets of tar.

I wd of course prefer to die with the fox in the ferns, or as a photograph of a
Spad
(World War I) wound bout my throat like a necktie, and all the girls gone and the legs legs legs legs girls kicking real high.

old poets are quite as bad as old queers; there’s something quite unacceptable in either of them.

And I don’t see quite how you can go for H.D. unless you go for befriending, and don’t ever to have to do that, Goddess.

I can always write how the hell hwo ho drunk or wot I kin always write you a letter that can make yoir yes eyeballs crop up in the center of your hands and wonder what’s happening.

Meanwhile I have all hexes working. Relax.

Truly,

Charles
—
Bymxkskli

19/april/61 pobx 46 s.g. cal

buk/ like a gypsy raised by gypsy mother & half-breed irish from silver-tongued juice-happy father; lived on a liquid diet he did; roaming the eastern seaboard from age
GO
—now a week here now there; different names & ages & background; charity but parents sending me with the relief checks to stand in line or for shoes or old eggs etc—whenever got ‘lost’ in new town…soon’s my mother turned her back I’d ‘go for a walk’ & stay hrs
& hrs until dark & she’d call cops: “i don’t know
HOW
she got there but you’ll find my little girl in the closest museum or public library”

i’d be there filling my soul up with the old dead bones that i somehow knew & gems & old objects…always in the rooms of mummies…from early age…my toys wd be…old bones the dogs left on the city streets…that i’d wrap in torn stained rags & lay in the back yard under the fire escapes…putting stone rooms around them & then go into a trance like state…even at 2 or 3 yrs old…i’d worship my ‘mummies’…

and always was of a mind so fantastic & filled with knowledge that didn’t know how got there…“you shd give this one to the church” they’d say…those church people who came with baskets of foods…that made my mother cringe & simper…

the church ugly bitch with her eye-cunts droolin’ on me…trying to get her old come out of her brains by me…handing me the doll…age 2 ish…(I cd read & write & draw at 2) the large $5 doll that creamed my mother’s no-childhood-days-in-family-18-kids & just big little girl drawers…my mother wanted the doll…I played with my bones rags & stones & trances…the backed-up come bitch from the neighborhood church…“what does th’ doll say little girl??” turning over baby doll…“maaaaaa-ma” it went & i hated giving her any sex thrill…said i: “the doll says ‘pa pa’” & it went on for a while but i wdn’t change my story for no doll even tho’ was sorry for poor maw who got herself laid by a gay irish lad & had to marry him…costing him his rich family…been excommunicated from holy roman cat’lick church 2-ice & paid way back in…1st time…last time raised hell & was
OUT
for long while…sorry i had to be cause of her
UN
doing…gentle fearful beautiful gypsy mother…one of 18 kids…ignorant as a worm…beautiful as a pagan…church cunt finally let me have doll with big show of dismissing moronic kid & i went out & drop’d doll in rain water & returned to my bones rags & stones…fuck church bitch…ought not to masturbate on the joy of small kids…but I was wary…& ancient…now that i see my teeth going i rejoice…somewhere buried in a secret spot in that mummy that my spirit keeps coming out of…again & again & again…and each time a tooth falls from its long dead head…my earth form loses a grip on its teeth life & I sing in joy because i know…as soon as it turns into dust…my spirit will be liberated…her wisdom & compassion
keeps her tied to earth…coming thru that lovely set dead dried skin hair & bones wrap’d in rags in a deep cave…

my hair is falling out & i weep for joy…my ancient mummy decays…soon the bones will be under attack…the skin is long since splotched…the hair loosening & the teeth gone…this reincarnation my teeth went bad from birth…the mummy’s going…& i will be free then…i am beautiful as a vampire…& ancient as death…no one knows my age…i am cunning as an old ghetto jew…& deep with wisdom & tired as life itself but filled with love for us all…daily i wait for that old set of bones to leave…surely they cannot hold out beyond this life…i can already feel my own bones going…

at early age…cut out words
ISIS
from some yiddish kotex advert. or whiskey ad…cut it out secretly & pin’d over bed…age 5 or 6 or 7…& the thrill that took me at these 4 words shook me from any modern religion back to that of the dust bag where I return & come & go…it was sheri at st. liz that got the heiroglyphics into the cantos that my language never die…never die…never die…

how
d.p.’s son Omar Pound
hated me…he sneered: “I guess you got a dog tag around yr neck to call dogs with” because I sd to maestro: “it is my 2 ivory oriental bracelets that called the oriental visitor…” & sure enough i had my medal of the lady & i touched it saying: “yes i do…i have a medal which calls my lady…
eeeezzzzessss
” & omar had spent time in persia & egypt & knew i wuz a hick & his eyes shot out because thanks to my lady…the pronunciation of her name was perfect he knew it & he was scared for mocking me—i had a beautiful scarab that a german boy gave me but father jordon took it when i sought refuge with the
stancioff family
& he came visiting & i served him their whiskey…& took a bit myself & called him a cocksuckin’ motherfucker…he came at me & put his hands around my back & undid my rope removing the scarab…that I wore not to lose it & gave me the miraculous medal…&
said “wear that…for protection” & he kept my scarab…& he wont return it…the catholic witchwarlock

but it changed my life…the Lady is now in clothes from head to foot…but I am here to rip them from her & let my lady breathe again…that we all breathe…I am not a goddess but a high priestess of my Lady of the Skye—the Lady of the African Blue that I painted & paint…Ezra is the
SCORPION
H.D. is the
SNAKE
& S.M. is the
HAWK
…E.P. born under sign scorpio H.D. has a signet sign of the snake & the thistle & s.m. has the lines in the (her) cantos:
“bright hawk whom no hood shall chain”

3 signs of life they are; the scorpion is the dragon sign; the snake is from crete & the hawk is from egypt/ on p. 67 yr H.D.
SELECTED POEMS
GROVE PRESS: POEM:
Fair the Thread
: H.D. wrote:

and she my goddess H.D. did not know what I know…who is the scorpion, & the snake & the hawk; i was the last to come…

i come out of egypt & return there—time beats at my door & i return—like a sound from the old drum of dried bones secure in a place where the feet of many men beat the earth & i know how to judge the time by their beats over my stone room…many cities have gone up & fallen down over top of my head & i come out of gypsy mothers & gay lost fathers; it is safest in such places…nothing has ever touched me nor changed one atom of my pattern…it is always the same…truth is love; truth is death; truth is life; rebirth; truth is our food; our light; our destiny, fate, colour, shape, form & design/

on p. 66 same book/ read: “If you take the moon in your hands

and turn it round
(heavy, slightly tarnished platter)
you’re there;”

consider how this remote eternal spirit—gave slang talk to the nubians…her time’s kids: “man…yew there…”—read
Georgius Sanctus
out ringing loud like african drum tribal ceremonies—every word is a drum…drum…drum…dig the word endings in
Hymn
p. 69 “jar myrrh stored secure” H.D. never ‘studied poetry’ she
IS
poetry her ear is fine as silk

and as strong; read
The Walls Do Not Fall
my god…you need me to read it to you & thrill yr earballs kid/ 9/45 a.m. star in mid east egypt israel a flame

I’d like the Rev. Swabey to review for Cookson’s
Agenda
& Rev. Swabey the man wot converted Eliot to anglican choich &
UN
shockable & def. one of us & yens to know what’s shakin’ with us over here…so trust me & send on

& I was naturally
DEE
lighted to discover that one small literary effort upon my part had the power to make you far madder than one literary effort upon yr part—alls it did was elevate moi lofty dammed perch loftier &
LOFT
ier…& have
NO
idea
WHAT
means “lawsuits” etc.…& my dear Bukowski
IF
I had the discipline not to
sue
Nation
magazine
why wd I want to sue you or
ANY
body?? I do not take notice of the law for the dogs but only the Law which governs Ladies & Gentlemen…ahem. &
AH
men.

and if you want to keep the things away from H.D.’s poetry & leave it up to we Superiors—well that’s
YOUR
responsibility…I believe in educating the kids & will only offer them ambrosia &
icor
…or ikor…howhellspelled

now calm down darling & tell yr Lady that she was correct about Ernie…& didn’t know he’d gone by until he wrote & of course his portrait of you was just as irritated as yr portrait of him—found you lacking in any appreciation of truth beauty etc & with low morals & so forth & on…but babe he’s a hick & there are
NO
more moral-ists on earth than the Jews. If you tie that up with mid-western morality you got my Ernie/

No wont give
Longshot
to Sal Army but to Yale University where you have an audience who admires you in Mr. N. H. Pearson even tho’ he wont believe H.D. visited me day before her departure; thank Godtt something prompted me to write an account of it to Rev. Swabey on the day she was dying & I cdn’t have known about it; to my discredit I thought it was a head of Christ because it was so holy & mysterious & sacred…

So much for now is now 9/45 & so long Buk & we discuss yr visit/& take yew vitamins/minerals
IF
yew gotta zrink pbeer/

Love//Shed

Sheri

L.A.
Nov. what? 13, 1961

Hello Shed:

Walking down the street the other night, East side of town, there are not too many lights, I came across this body laying in the curb and the body was dead, I know death, I have seen dead roses and flies and moths, I have seen dead people, and his hat was dead in the curb, and people will die anywhere, they have no neatness, they will die on streetcars and meatmarkets, they will die in the bath or on the pot or on their love, they will die, they will die, and I looked at his body, the curious emptied-out feeling, and I thought, that will be me, I will be that and then it will be too late, I will not be able to do what I should have done, and I walked one halfblock or so and I saw a prowl car and waved them over, “There’s a man down on the corner,” I told them and the one on the door side, thin little moustache, too young, smiled at me knowingly and said, “Thank you, sir,” and he thought I meant a drunk had fallen, I guess I do not talk too excited, and I went on down the dark street and into a bar and the place was full of angels except for the bartender who was a bull without balls and I lifted the drink as if in a toast and then tossed it down and he said, “Who’s that for?” and I said, “For a friend, my friend.” For a friend. And I went out and the rats were still in the gutters and a black and white dog, his tail looped in, was eating a piece of cardboard in the parking lot, and well. well, well, well. I walked on…

Look, oh lofty one of the rarified air, I have enclosed 2
Longshots
for which you will not be silly enough to send me 2 bucks for as if I were some grubby little merchant, but I know you were just going through a formality there…Your tabula
rasa, Ernie, if he thought my morals bad, which they are and my vulgarity excellent, which it is, I am pleased, for by these

      any acceptance would mean failure.

—I did not select the poems that appeared in
Longshots
. Many of them I do not care for either but I let the editors have their head and it looks as if their head were not so good, but I cannot be bothered because these poems are behind me and to slosh around in them again is only so much stale jazz on an old record, and since I am not preparing for any type of immortality they can damn fuck well do wat they please, and so. soo, so, so.

Ah, I am aware I down with the fish, and being in there I think fishthoughts and so am locked in a small area of watery whirling…

Lord, Shed, you sure got it in for the Jap broads. I think they shake it nice. Some little slanty steal a bull from ya in the far past, eh Princess? You curse classicly in your letters and I got a cigarette and a beer and my face smiles at your vocab. I’ve worked on the docks and the railroadyards and never heard anything like this; the only difference being that their cussing is pewkingly sickening and without soul but yours comes through like the sound of sledgehammers on the sides of a steel barn.