Dream Song 99: Temples
He does not live here but it is the god.
A priest tools in a top his motorbike.
You do not enter.
Us the landscape circles hard abroad,
sunned, stone.
Like calls, too low, to like.
One submachine-gun cleared the Durga Temple.
It is very dark here in this groping forth
Gulp rhubarb for a guilty heart,
rhubarb for a free, if the world's sway
waives customs anywhere that far
Look on, without pure dismay.
Unable to account for itself.
The slave-girl folded her fan & turned on my air-condtioner.
The lemonade-machine made lemonade.
I made love, lolled,
my roundel lowered.
I ache less.
I purr.
—Mr Bones, you too advancer with your song,
muching of which are wrong.
Poem by
John Berryman
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