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Wednesday, February 06, 2008

Room 224


The Waste Land


April is the uncruellest month,

Breeding mixing stirring feeding

Lilacs land memory and desire

And roots are dull with springing rain.

We were caught in a coffee quandry,

Tranced into the Hoftgarten,

Where sunlight and sun surprised, smiled,

And let us chat in Russin unt Deutsch,

Unt coffee flowed into ourselves,

Warming firing, and we stopped,

When April, with flaming hair,

Broke out in joyous French. Fear

Caught me by my tickling scrotum.

He, she adjured me to calm

As we sped on the sled into the terrible dark -

High high in snow freedom.

Deep at night I invade my books

And Westward walk

In that awful other season. Some go North.


What clutches grows inverted trees

Wierdly from all this ashly crumblings?

You. Yes, you - to you I speak. You

Will never have the knowing. No, no,

Never shalt thou know: for in your gloomed

Skull a pantomime is played -

Outside where beats down heat

There is no watering place, no holing up -

No where can be found the leastest trickle

In the rocks of gods

In the garden of rocks

In the harsh unshadowed land

Where I have forgotten

How this strange conjunction

Of striding morning shadows,

Inverting rising in meeting,

Was revealed to me - in a handful of-

A man with a blazing brow

Showed me fear in transformal

Primal dust, until, after the rain of red rocks,

I writhed in Wagnerian,

That Hitler (and I) so loved. (But we both

loved/feared grails and waters.)

We reappeared at the ending time,

And all applauded -

The the dew sparkling hyacinths

Had you shine with smile,

And another god impelled this All-

And vast the silence, the heart:

The sacred sacred heart

- We were unsighted by this fire.

Vast sea, empty sea -

In your green visions we untounged

- Searched we our hearts,

Nothing knowing of the core, the centre,

The nexus of stasis,

The thunder of the drumming of unsound.

Das Meer is unt Leer,

Unt Lear was crazed with blinded knowing -

(This much we know, as we are darked.)


Madam Sosostris had the flu,

And coughed like a wicked witch.

She was a bitch and played her fateful cards.

All the ages, all meanings, took on new life,

Including Thunder, way over Dark Mountain,

And we crouched who fell

Back into our fervent religious shell.

(I Tiresias, drinker of waking blood,

Wither in all dimensions, being regenerative

Corpsed was Clov’s word -)

Uga uga jug jug jug.

Life life life - sex is fill of complex -

Broken bottles and Cleopatric rats.

Fear The Dog, Watch It Phlebas. .

Da Dadhatta Dhayaardvam.

Raise to 3 powers Shantih.


Richard Taylor.






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