The Hairy Hairy Fist and Love Will Die

The dull haunches will sit in chairs and fart
See the paper flowers
old women and lint
Horse with broken leg
Spider taking it in
Wrinkles under bedpan chins
Acromegalic diverticulitis [?]
Your soul- filled with mud and bats and curses

And the hammers will go in, there will be the hairy hairy fists and love will die.
Love will stroke the balls of your worst enemy
And your neck will ache and toilet paper will stick in your crotch
And out the window, the same pictures of torture and murder and horror
Cats with birds,
Cats with mice,
Dogs with cats,
Live men like ivory needing a shave
And the petulant and nasty children of the universe
Stealing, climbing, planning, cutting, warring
All so healthy, all so strong
Ah, your soul will feel so bad that the saliva will run from your mouth in cup fulls
Patches of paint and sores will appear on your face and under your arms
And sleep will be the last thing they will let you have.
Men you could trust will fade like children's drawings,
Your wife will hate you,
Your child will ignore you,
Your boss will fire you,
The police will jail you,
And there'll be no bottom-
The soul will fall like a wounded bird of paradise into the most horrible stinking swill of shit
And still, no death
Still no death you will fail at death too.
And there will not even be the peace of isolation, the final grey-black cellar
Just more hammers, more saws, more engines
More bad music, more relaxed voices of zero
You'll be ripped up and down until your clothing no longer fits you
You'll be the scarecrow, the rag, the smiling rag of a thing
And the enemy, which is everyone, will appear beautifully clothed
Calm, smiling, driving smooth rolls of shining steel
And the sun will fall upon them like a flower

Your soul will feel so bad,
that you know it will not ever quite live again.
And there'll be nothing you can do
Drink will not patch you,
Prayer will not save it,
Praise from the enemy will not heal it,
Nothing will work
Nothing will be nothing like a harp with broken strings in somebody's corner in somebody's misery garbage.

While all around, like the fourth of July
Like betting with a virgin, like champagne over the head of easy wildness
The force of other things and other ways will celebrate the occasion
Their existence without few