Darke Deco Dialogue—
A Verse Play with Ouija Board
__________________
Characters: Sylvia, Ted, Auden, Merrill, Capote
Sylvia:
Moving—being moved.
We burn—like dry ice.
We’ll imagine—a great frieze.
Egyptian, Greek—perhaps Art Deco
The spirits come—like heirloom tricks
They’ll come & go—trundling thru time
Ted:
I’m bored—such a stupid game
It’s silly—talk of the other side
Let’s make love—fuck ouija
Sylvia:
And thru the—coffee table glass
Giorgio de Chirico—will speak to us
Reading poems—on the BBC
Terrible faceless—mannequin queens
Mytholmroyd dummies—of the moors
Yorkshire witches—from Macbeth
Three Fates—de Qunicey’s sisters!
Auden:
C’mon my dears—you’re too much
Too Emily Bronte—Wuthering Heights
These spirit texts—ouija sessions
I’d much rather—gossip about love
What’s Chester up to—the usual?
Midnight rendezvous—Acropolis boyz?
Sylvia:
So nice of you—dearest Auden
To drop in—for a little chat
Fabling sheared—down to words
A mere 26 letters—a planchette
Plus Yes—plus No etc etc
And this bare board—keen to burn
Ted:
They actually—allow it?
Men like you—my dear Auden?
To exist—over there in heaven?
Or is it hell—in which you reside?
It chills my heart—to think
Miss Capote—swishing there
Lisping that way—she did over here
Auden:
Nothing happens—always talk
Like you Ted—you’re such a jerk
Wrist, shoulders—a big fat lip
Nothing happens—clueless you
Poor Sylvia—stuck that way
You’re an—Easter Island wreck
Sylvia:
Now, now, boys—no nicknames
Let’s use Letters—one by one
To tell the Story—knock, knock
Who’s there—a spirit guide?
Merrill:
Yes, my dear—I’m here
Auden & I—we’re ouija queens
Feel me—play with the planchette?
I’m bored you know—foolish too
Fortune telling—what’s that?
Fortune comes—fortune goes
Auden:
We shan’t tell—the awful truth
The other side—our Dante’s hell
We have our—own little circle
No Escape—No Exit, you know
Truman, Merrill—and lowly me
White-haired—benefactresses
The occult—our bridge game
Nothing happens—not really
Ted:
How tedious—grim
Spelling these—half-hints
Palmed off—old hunches
Crummy oracles—stupid
It’s only—our own intuitions
The planchette—a mere puppet
Stealing perplexities—from thin air
Balderdash brewing—what a pub
If pigs had wings—maybe they’d fly
I need a beer—I need a drink
Capote:
That’s because—you’re stupid
Butchy, bad—and tres ignorant
At least—the young killers
In Cold Blood—were smart
Smart enough—to know
Ventriloquy—traffics & glides
Fairytale magic—admit it
Spirits speak—stylishly
Merrill:
It’s true—what Truman says
Frequently—we have insights
Flashes of prescience—dazzling
But always—something unimportant
Ho-hum—yawn…
Auden:
The truth of—the matter
Is itself—again and again
The board—a thicket of words
And when—the lights go out
Let us all—bear witness
May two real people—breathe
In a real room—like now
Ted:
Listen to them—what queens
All they do is—bitch incessantly
Precocious—pronouncements
This board—their playground
A bingo parlor—of dreams
Nervous Nelly’s—high-strung
Tenacious tongues—atrocious
Sylvia:
Please, spirits—listen to me
Tell me—will I be a famous poet?
Will I publish—a masterpiece?
Merrill:
Be careful—what you ask
The fingertips—know all
You may not like—what you hear
Blackbirds, scarecrows—darkness
We pass—thru a perishable screen
Capote:
Why not—let her ask?
Let’s tell her—teardrops all?
A blue moon—over a grave
An oven—full of veronicas
Under the guise—of nonchalance
Pull the rabbit—from the hat
Sooner now—than later
Auden:
Well, well—dearest Sylvia
Are you sure—you want to know
Dredging up—the pool of prophecy
Unfathomed bottom—of the well
Instead of—fat fish down there
Deeper than—your ocean floor
Barnacle-pitted—moss-wigged
Lobster-limbed—chimeras hooked
Davy’s locker—unlordly home
These fibs are ours—not yours
You’ll spell the lines—a poet be
Your last letters—a masterpiece
Your tongue—a lucid blood-jet
Your poetry—shall be Arielesque!
Merrill:
Oh please—stop taunting her
Your list of similes—are pure rot
Tell her the truth—not the lies
You’re full of it—my dear Auden
Wishful thinking—just like you
Plucking forbidden fruit—as usual
Tell her the truth—plainly, simply
Such deception—deceives fools
Your will—has curtseyed to Ted
I always knew—rough trade
Turned you on—bad seed
Tell her the truth—about the thug
He’ll stuff her head—in an oven
Capote:
That’s right—and I should know
Cold blood—is how it really works
In the core of nerves—it stirs
The male homicidal—naked ape
Nasty tongues—want mending
They’ll blame her—afterwards
A cottage industry—of orchids
Living off her life—then death
Her royalties—the dead queen bee
Seized & shackled—by the Estate
The image of her—wax-pale
Shadowy rings—under her eyes
Transfixed into stone—by hacks
Cold as ice—his killer hands
Out with it—tell her the truth
Ted:
These queens—they’re crazy
It’s absurd—this smell of decay
Dreamed deaths—these vampires
Let’s stop this—tacky parlor game
Pull back the curtains—let air in
November’s done with—gobbledygook
The wind tonight—full of bat-shapes
Web-wings—wet in the moonlight
I’m resolved—words won’t twist me
Listen to me, Sylvia—trust me
Forget this labyrinth—of lizard-scales
This skein of voices—from the undead
What manner of beasts—stalk us now?
These spirits—slouching into Devon
Forget the graveyard—in our backdoor
Let others—grope for the gospel
Suck the crevice—for poisonous fumes
Ignore—the Pythoness prophecies
The contending words—devil’s doom
Forget the tripod—fuming burning
Here is our livingroom—glance aside
The chairs won’t vanish—we exist
Don’t pay attention—to sly Auden
Merrill & Capote—they’re a mess
Let’s go to bed—the night is ours
Let me devour you—make you mine
Sylvia:
[She pauses—shocked, stunned]
Auden:
The board—doesn’t begrudge
It spells it out—D-A-N-G-E-R
Its visions—aren’t vouchsafed
There’s a blue moon—over Miami
The planchette—propels patiently
Crossing the—perishable screen
Between this world—and the other
It’s gutsy—and yet always unseen
Antique virgins—like Andromeda
Speed their way—thru Art Deco
So stylish—so streamline moderne
That’s how—dark Las Vegas works
The gambling game—thru time
Egyptianesque—Chrysler Tower turns
Up there in—the lovely Sky Room
The cards are played—shadows win
The stint of Sisyphus—all over again
It seems contradictory—but it’s true
There is no—past, present or future
Heaving up thru—heaven’s tent
It’s a three-ring circus—what happens
Zanzibar zeitgeists—come & go
While the women—talk of Michelangelo
You can be tempted—by gross gullibility
If you prefer—to be lazy & young
But to quicken—the sluggard’s blood
That’s why we—are the go-betweens
We Ouija poets—are humble things
We chance to answer—if we wish
We don’t waste time—we eat words
We revoke Genesis—Big Bang Daddy
In the beginning—wasn’t the Word
But we’re always polite—never severe
Your questions get—our humble answers
Any chance—for a true one is slim
In the beginning—inklings of doom
We drift—rather than endorse godhead
Angeldom—spells descent to Earth
Words warrant—the wake of nothing
It pays to be politic—cheesy psyches
Bled white by nails—stations of the cross
Nothing comes—to a busy conscience
The venom—of where we came from
This board a mouthpiece—turn it on?
Don’t be bashful—go ahead & ask.
Sylvia:
Well, I dunno—will I be a poet?
All I have—is just a single volume
Some Mademoiselle—minor poems
A few there in—Ladies Home Journal
A New Yorker or two—and Harper’s
So many manuscripts—so little time.
Merrill:
Less time—my dear
Than you think—be alert
He’s a clever one—a Wolfman
He wastes no time—a Killer
He’s a Rabbit Catcher—a Hunter
He likes it—when blood runs red
He’s a Pike—primitive, toothy.
Poor Assia—she’ll be next
Sylvia:
I’m just a—mere woman poet
What chance—do I have?
Male modernist poetry—rules.
It trumps—the publishing world.
Pound’s Era—crushed Lesbia
He hated Gertrude Stein—and Alice
The long line—of Sapphic Modernists
Subjugated into—the background
Like Djuna Barnes, Mina Loy—as well as
Emily Dickinson—Voice of Amherst
Even now—Patriarchal Poetry still rules
There’s a glass ceiling—for women poets
While in the wings—Virginia Woolf waits
Along with—Elizabeth Bishop closeted
Anne Sexton—and Susan Howe
American poet laureate—Kay Ryan
British poet laureate—Carol Anne Duffy
[Sylvia stops—sighs, closes her eyes
Then talks to the board—as if confessing
Telling the dearly—departed gay poets
About her married life—and predicament]
While Ted courts—Faber & Faber
Schmoozing easily—after all, he’s a man
And men love—their cocktail parties
See them—there in the drab stairwell
Outside Eliot’s office—in rainy London
There on dreary—Russell Square
Outside his—grim Faber office
Drunk T. S. Eliot—giddy Prufrock
Intoxicated Spender—so nelly
Glib MacNeice—leaning sideways
Auden cruising—handsome Ted
While Hughes—glowers aloofly
Auden:
Poor Ted—like any lazy bad boy
He needs a beating—now and then
Capote:
Let me do it—I’m good at it
After whelping—those two ruffians
There in gaunt, grim—gothic Kansas
I’m totally willing—to be his mouthpiece
Auden:
Ted reminds me—of a sailor I once knew
Who gave me a fissure—in my bottom-pooh
Larkin laughed it up—I couldn’t sit down
I tried sublimating—the pain & pleasure
In my version of—the tacky Tempest
Ariel trapped in a tree—Please release me!
Brute Caliban deep—deep inside me.
Ted:
See how easily—they borrow the tongues
Their common sense—sealed watertight
Like weasels sneaking—into a chicken coup
Sucking the eggs—the life-force of the living
No wonder they sound—furtive & sneaky
Whatever they say—will only deceive you
Sherlock Holmsing you—into a blank wall
The more they talk—to drive your doubts out
The more they are—spies in from the cold
Don’t presuppose, Sylvia—they’re real
Your inner voice—talking like it was you
If you indeed plant—the seeds of doubt
The seeds of wonder—they give you
Then all you’ll get—is Jack & Beanstalk
No Magic Harp—no Goose & Golden Eggs
Gabriel’s thumb—isn’t fingering the Planchette
It’s Beelzebub I see—deceiving you
Forget Mother Goose—fairy tale endings
Feel the throbbing veins—in your forehead
Let me take you—away from all of this
Let me kiss—your green latticework of leaves
Let me use my taproot—and nail you good
Capote:
Oh my dears—I’m so hot I’m melting
I feel like Edith Hamilton—the Evil Witch
The way Ted puts it—it’s all Wizard of Oz
We’re just psychic bandits—closet cases
We’re just simply—minor little Munchkins
Figments of the imagination—hoaxes
I must say Ted—does it rather well
Palming off his perplexities—enticingly
He’s like that old hack—Robert Graves
With all that White Goddess—balderdash
He’s got his own—olive-beaked dove
Flying overhead—shitting on us below
Merrill:
There’s a chorus—of Myth-Makers singing
Ted’s got the disease—he snaps the whip
All I can say is—I really can’t blame him
Even tho he thinks—with the wrong head
Who knows—it might be the right one?
If he persists—in gushing half-pints
He’ll make a good smug—poet laureate
Engulfing fact with fantasy—the Empire
Silver Jubilees—clairvoyant seizures
That’s what happens—in bed, you know
He loses it—gravity’s grip lets go
Tedious everyday—living & breathing
He needs to get—to the roots of things
The need of his greed—demands women
Bilking the needy ones—banging in bed
For Ted the muse—is in the Chase
Finding it, losing it—over & over again
He always needs—to restore his Faith
The male Faith-Maker—born-again
Auden:
Not just the usual—mandatory vices
Lions, Tigers & Bears—oh my!!!
Foisted castles—erect in the air!
Ted needs more—than paltry scenes
Married life & diapers—in soup-kitchens
It’s not candid tea-leaves—he wants
Séance & soirées—Madame Sosostris
He knows what he wants—that’s for sure
He wants to hear—live women in bed
Enjoying his gift—getting nailed but good
Bathing in the countenance—of lovers
Burning like nuns—shroud-circled smirk
He loves young upstarts—who need him
To be pampered—pleased & kindled
Curled to a cinder—poached in the woods
Springing from one—then onto another
Each lay a wedding night—all over again
This is the energy—the Nutcracker Sweet
Pulling the sheet back—in the fairy tale
Little Red Riding Hood—ogling in disbelief
“Oh Grandmother!—dearest Grandmother!
Oh dear me!—What a Big One you’ve got!”
Her shuddering words—credulity in a pinch
Then jumping in bed—the smell of blood…
Sylvia:
I’ll admit it—I’m scared & afraid
It’s all too imminent—I’m easily convinced
It started off—a brief Cambridge fling
Then my Electra complex—kicked in bed
My love for a young thug—turned me on
Big Daddy born again—wasn’t that my Desire?
Isn’t that what I wanted—another Auschwitz
The whip & rack—the train to the camp?
My Panzer-man husband—so Fascist & firm?
My Luftwaffe-pilot lover—bombing me good?
Everything was fine—he was a decent lay.
I can’t blame him—Americans bored him.
He wasn’t cut-out—for New England academe.
He was more—a rough Yorkshire boy in heat
We moved to the country—I wanted him happy
He was a down-to-earth—Mytholmroyd hood
He was like a Stonehenge prick—erect & proud
His own version—of the White Goddess
Was the pale godhead—between his legs
He had instinctual urges—like any real man
That’s what Assia Weevil—Susan Alliston wanted
The same with Jill Barber—who loved to party
Perhaps I was jealous—was I old-fashioned?
I didn’t want to share him—why should I?
I knew he needed it—feminine inspiration
Many poets were like that—Yeats and WCW
And so here I am now—telling the truth
To a bunch of—spirit poets out of the blue
I shan’t let—my fingers be dragged anymore
Around & around—by the psychic Planchette
Thank you for answering—beyond the grave
The after-life exists—I’m no longer a skeptic
After all—I too may soon be there, my dears
Auden:
Well, dearest Sylvia—at least you know
It was always there—right under your finger
Each time we poets—from the other side
Communicate with the living—it’s difficult
We must relearn the letters—one by one
Stringing them together—nothing happens
Nothing is coming across—then it happens
The Planchette jerks—it swerves, it scoots
Around & around—it’s making a tour
The letters are there—living in the same space
But spirits, well—we’re always on the move
The darkside learns how—to make letters new
It’s all in the wrist—the motion, the elbow
Sometimes it’s the shoulder—that’s the trick
Then there’s the brandy—and a nice fire
We spirits are figures—in an ancient frieze
We come to life—like Fellini’s Satyricon
Then we fold back—into the screen
A Verse Play with Ouija Board
__________________
Characters: Sylvia, Ted, Auden, Merrill, Capote
Sylvia:
Moving—being moved.
We burn—like dry ice.
We’ll imagine—a great frieze.
Egyptian, Greek—perhaps Art Deco
The spirits come—like heirloom tricks
They’ll come & go—trundling thru time
Ted:
I’m bored—such a stupid game
It’s silly—talk of the other side
Let’s make love—fuck ouija
Sylvia:
And thru the—coffee table glass
Giorgio de Chirico—will speak to us
Reading poems—on the BBC
Terrible faceless—mannequin queens
Mytholmroyd dummies—of the moors
Yorkshire witches—from Macbeth
Three Fates—de Qunicey’s sisters!
Auden:
C’mon my dears—you’re too much
Too Emily Bronte—Wuthering Heights
These spirit texts—ouija sessions
I’d much rather—gossip about love
What’s Chester up to—the usual?
Midnight rendezvous—Acropolis boyz?
Sylvia:
So nice of you—dearest Auden
To drop in—for a little chat
Fabling sheared—down to words
A mere 26 letters—a planchette
Plus Yes—plus No etc etc
And this bare board—keen to burn
Ted:
They actually—allow it?
Men like you—my dear Auden?
To exist—over there in heaven?
Or is it hell—in which you reside?
It chills my heart—to think
Miss Capote—swishing there
Lisping that way—she did over here
Auden:
Nothing happens—always talk
Like you Ted—you’re such a jerk
Wrist, shoulders—a big fat lip
Nothing happens—clueless you
Poor Sylvia—stuck that way
You’re an—Easter Island wreck
Sylvia:
Now, now, boys—no nicknames
Let’s use Letters—one by one
To tell the Story—knock, knock
Who’s there—a spirit guide?
Merrill:
Yes, my dear—I’m here
Auden & I—we’re ouija queens
Feel me—play with the planchette?
I’m bored you know—foolish too
Fortune telling—what’s that?
Fortune comes—fortune goes
Auden:
We shan’t tell—the awful truth
The other side—our Dante’s hell
We have our—own little circle
No Escape—No Exit, you know
Truman, Merrill—and lowly me
White-haired—benefactresses
The occult—our bridge game
Nothing happens—not really
Ted:
How tedious—grim
Spelling these—half-hints
Palmed off—old hunches
Crummy oracles—stupid
It’s only—our own intuitions
The planchette—a mere puppet
Stealing perplexities—from thin air
Balderdash brewing—what a pub
If pigs had wings—maybe they’d fly
I need a beer—I need a drink
Capote:
That’s because—you’re stupid
Butchy, bad—and tres ignorant
At least—the young killers
In Cold Blood—were smart
Smart enough—to know
Ventriloquy—traffics & glides
Fairytale magic—admit it
Spirits speak—stylishly
Merrill:
It’s true—what Truman says
Frequently—we have insights
Flashes of prescience—dazzling
But always—something unimportant
Ho-hum—yawn…
Auden:
The truth of—the matter
Is itself—again and again
The board—a thicket of words
And when—the lights go out
Let us all—bear witness
May two real people—breathe
In a real room—like now
Ted:
Listen to them—what queens
All they do is—bitch incessantly
Precocious—pronouncements
This board—their playground
A bingo parlor—of dreams
Nervous Nelly’s—high-strung
Tenacious tongues—atrocious
Sylvia:
Please, spirits—listen to me
Tell me—will I be a famous poet?
Will I publish—a masterpiece?
Merrill:
Be careful—what you ask
The fingertips—know all
You may not like—what you hear
Blackbirds, scarecrows—darkness
We pass—thru a perishable screen
Capote:
Why not—let her ask?
Let’s tell her—teardrops all?
A blue moon—over a grave
An oven—full of veronicas
Under the guise—of nonchalance
Pull the rabbit—from the hat
Sooner now—than later
Auden:
Well, well—dearest Sylvia
Are you sure—you want to know
Dredging up—the pool of prophecy
Unfathomed bottom—of the well
Instead of—fat fish down there
Deeper than—your ocean floor
Barnacle-pitted—moss-wigged
Lobster-limbed—chimeras hooked
Davy’s locker—unlordly home
These fibs are ours—not yours
You’ll spell the lines—a poet be
Your last letters—a masterpiece
Your tongue—a lucid blood-jet
Your poetry—shall be Arielesque!
Merrill:
Oh please—stop taunting her
Your list of similes—are pure rot
Tell her the truth—not the lies
You’re full of it—my dear Auden
Wishful thinking—just like you
Plucking forbidden fruit—as usual
Tell her the truth—plainly, simply
Such deception—deceives fools
Your will—has curtseyed to Ted
I always knew—rough trade
Turned you on—bad seed
Tell her the truth—about the thug
He’ll stuff her head—in an oven
Capote:
That’s right—and I should know
Cold blood—is how it really works
In the core of nerves—it stirs
The male homicidal—naked ape
Nasty tongues—want mending
They’ll blame her—afterwards
A cottage industry—of orchids
Living off her life—then death
Her royalties—the dead queen bee
Seized & shackled—by the Estate
The image of her—wax-pale
Shadowy rings—under her eyes
Transfixed into stone—by hacks
Cold as ice—his killer hands
Out with it—tell her the truth
Ted:
These queens—they’re crazy
It’s absurd—this smell of decay
Dreamed deaths—these vampires
Let’s stop this—tacky parlor game
Pull back the curtains—let air in
November’s done with—gobbledygook
The wind tonight—full of bat-shapes
Web-wings—wet in the moonlight
I’m resolved—words won’t twist me
Listen to me, Sylvia—trust me
Forget this labyrinth—of lizard-scales
This skein of voices—from the undead
What manner of beasts—stalk us now?
These spirits—slouching into Devon
Forget the graveyard—in our backdoor
Let others—grope for the gospel
Suck the crevice—for poisonous fumes
Ignore—the Pythoness prophecies
The contending words—devil’s doom
Forget the tripod—fuming burning
Here is our livingroom—glance aside
The chairs won’t vanish—we exist
Don’t pay attention—to sly Auden
Merrill & Capote—they’re a mess
Let’s go to bed—the night is ours
Let me devour you—make you mine
Sylvia:
[She pauses—shocked, stunned]
Auden:
The board—doesn’t begrudge
It spells it out—D-A-N-G-E-R
Its visions—aren’t vouchsafed
There’s a blue moon—over Miami
The planchette—propels patiently
Crossing the—perishable screen
Between this world—and the other
It’s gutsy—and yet always unseen
Antique virgins—like Andromeda
Speed their way—thru Art Deco
So stylish—so streamline moderne
That’s how—dark Las Vegas works
The gambling game—thru time
Egyptianesque—Chrysler Tower turns
Up there in—the lovely Sky Room
The cards are played—shadows win
The stint of Sisyphus—all over again
It seems contradictory—but it’s true
There is no—past, present or future
Heaving up thru—heaven’s tent
It’s a three-ring circus—what happens
Zanzibar zeitgeists—come & go
While the women—talk of Michelangelo
You can be tempted—by gross gullibility
If you prefer—to be lazy & young
But to quicken—the sluggard’s blood
That’s why we—are the go-betweens
We Ouija poets—are humble things
We chance to answer—if we wish
We don’t waste time—we eat words
We revoke Genesis—Big Bang Daddy
In the beginning—wasn’t the Word
But we’re always polite—never severe
Your questions get—our humble answers
Any chance—for a true one is slim
In the beginning—inklings of doom
We drift—rather than endorse godhead
Angeldom—spells descent to Earth
Words warrant—the wake of nothing
It pays to be politic—cheesy psyches
Bled white by nails—stations of the cross
Nothing comes—to a busy conscience
The venom—of where we came from
This board a mouthpiece—turn it on?
Don’t be bashful—go ahead & ask.
Sylvia:
Well, I dunno—will I be a poet?
All I have—is just a single volume
Some Mademoiselle—minor poems
A few there in—Ladies Home Journal
A New Yorker or two—and Harper’s
So many manuscripts—so little time.
Merrill:
Less time—my dear
Than you think—be alert
He’s a clever one—a Wolfman
He wastes no time—a Killer
He’s a Rabbit Catcher—a Hunter
He likes it—when blood runs red
He’s a Pike—primitive, toothy.
Poor Assia—she’ll be next
Sylvia:
I’m just a—mere woman poet
What chance—do I have?
Male modernist poetry—rules.
It trumps—the publishing world.
Pound’s Era—crushed Lesbia
He hated Gertrude Stein—and Alice
The long line—of Sapphic Modernists
Subjugated into—the background
Like Djuna Barnes, Mina Loy—as well as
Emily Dickinson—Voice of Amherst
Even now—Patriarchal Poetry still rules
There’s a glass ceiling—for women poets
While in the wings—Virginia Woolf waits
Along with—Elizabeth Bishop closeted
Anne Sexton—and Susan Howe
American poet laureate—Kay Ryan
British poet laureate—Carol Anne Duffy
[Sylvia stops—sighs, closes her eyes
Then talks to the board—as if confessing
Telling the dearly—departed gay poets
About her married life—and predicament]
While Ted courts—Faber & Faber
Schmoozing easily—after all, he’s a man
And men love—their cocktail parties
See them—there in the drab stairwell
Outside Eliot’s office—in rainy London
There on dreary—Russell Square
Outside his—grim Faber office
Drunk T. S. Eliot—giddy Prufrock
Intoxicated Spender—so nelly
Glib MacNeice—leaning sideways
Auden cruising—handsome Ted
While Hughes—glowers aloofly
Auden:
Poor Ted—like any lazy bad boy
He needs a beating—now and then
Capote:
Let me do it—I’m good at it
After whelping—those two ruffians
There in gaunt, grim—gothic Kansas
I’m totally willing—to be his mouthpiece
Auden:
Ted reminds me—of a sailor I once knew
Who gave me a fissure—in my bottom-pooh
Larkin laughed it up—I couldn’t sit down
I tried sublimating—the pain & pleasure
In my version of—the tacky Tempest
Ariel trapped in a tree—Please release me!
Brute Caliban deep—deep inside me.
Ted:
See how easily—they borrow the tongues
Their common sense—sealed watertight
Like weasels sneaking—into a chicken coup
Sucking the eggs—the life-force of the living
No wonder they sound—furtive & sneaky
Whatever they say—will only deceive you
Sherlock Holmsing you—into a blank wall
The more they talk—to drive your doubts out
The more they are—spies in from the cold
Don’t presuppose, Sylvia—they’re real
Your inner voice—talking like it was you
If you indeed plant—the seeds of doubt
The seeds of wonder—they give you
Then all you’ll get—is Jack & Beanstalk
No Magic Harp—no Goose & Golden Eggs
Gabriel’s thumb—isn’t fingering the Planchette
It’s Beelzebub I see—deceiving you
Forget Mother Goose—fairy tale endings
Feel the throbbing veins—in your forehead
Let me take you—away from all of this
Let me kiss—your green latticework of leaves
Let me use my taproot—and nail you good
Capote:
Oh my dears—I’m so hot I’m melting
I feel like Edith Hamilton—the Evil Witch
The way Ted puts it—it’s all Wizard of Oz
We’re just psychic bandits—closet cases
We’re just simply—minor little Munchkins
Figments of the imagination—hoaxes
I must say Ted—does it rather well
Palming off his perplexities—enticingly
He’s like that old hack—Robert Graves
With all that White Goddess—balderdash
He’s got his own—olive-beaked dove
Flying overhead—shitting on us below
Merrill:
There’s a chorus—of Myth-Makers singing
Ted’s got the disease—he snaps the whip
All I can say is—I really can’t blame him
Even tho he thinks—with the wrong head
Who knows—it might be the right one?
If he persists—in gushing half-pints
He’ll make a good smug—poet laureate
Engulfing fact with fantasy—the Empire
Silver Jubilees—clairvoyant seizures
That’s what happens—in bed, you know
He loses it—gravity’s grip lets go
Tedious everyday—living & breathing
He needs to get—to the roots of things
The need of his greed—demands women
Bilking the needy ones—banging in bed
For Ted the muse—is in the Chase
Finding it, losing it—over & over again
He always needs—to restore his Faith
The male Faith-Maker—born-again
Auden:
Not just the usual—mandatory vices
Lions, Tigers & Bears—oh my!!!
Foisted castles—erect in the air!
Ted needs more—than paltry scenes
Married life & diapers—in soup-kitchens
It’s not candid tea-leaves—he wants
Séance & soirées—Madame Sosostris
He knows what he wants—that’s for sure
He wants to hear—live women in bed
Enjoying his gift—getting nailed but good
Bathing in the countenance—of lovers
Burning like nuns—shroud-circled smirk
He loves young upstarts—who need him
To be pampered—pleased & kindled
Curled to a cinder—poached in the woods
Springing from one—then onto another
Each lay a wedding night—all over again
This is the energy—the Nutcracker Sweet
Pulling the sheet back—in the fairy tale
Little Red Riding Hood—ogling in disbelief
“Oh Grandmother!—dearest Grandmother!
Oh dear me!—What a Big One you’ve got!”
Her shuddering words—credulity in a pinch
Then jumping in bed—the smell of blood…
Sylvia:
I’ll admit it—I’m scared & afraid
It’s all too imminent—I’m easily convinced
It started off—a brief Cambridge fling
Then my Electra complex—kicked in bed
My love for a young thug—turned me on
Big Daddy born again—wasn’t that my Desire?
Isn’t that what I wanted—another Auschwitz
The whip & rack—the train to the camp?
My Panzer-man husband—so Fascist & firm?
My Luftwaffe-pilot lover—bombing me good?
Everything was fine—he was a decent lay.
I can’t blame him—Americans bored him.
He wasn’t cut-out—for New England academe.
He was more—a rough Yorkshire boy in heat
We moved to the country—I wanted him happy
He was a down-to-earth—Mytholmroyd hood
He was like a Stonehenge prick—erect & proud
His own version—of the White Goddess
Was the pale godhead—between his legs
He had instinctual urges—like any real man
That’s what Assia Weevil—Susan Alliston wanted
The same with Jill Barber—who loved to party
Perhaps I was jealous—was I old-fashioned?
I didn’t want to share him—why should I?
I knew he needed it—feminine inspiration
Many poets were like that—Yeats and WCW
And so here I am now—telling the truth
To a bunch of—spirit poets out of the blue
I shan’t let—my fingers be dragged anymore
Around & around—by the psychic Planchette
Thank you for answering—beyond the grave
The after-life exists—I’m no longer a skeptic
After all—I too may soon be there, my dears
Auden:
Well, dearest Sylvia—at least you know
It was always there—right under your finger
Each time we poets—from the other side
Communicate with the living—it’s difficult
We must relearn the letters—one by one
Stringing them together—nothing happens
Nothing is coming across—then it happens
The Planchette jerks—it swerves, it scoots
Around & around—it’s making a tour
The letters are there—living in the same space
But spirits, well—we’re always on the move
The darkside learns how—to make letters new
It’s all in the wrist—the motion, the elbow
Sometimes it’s the shoulder—that’s the trick
Then there’s the brandy—and a nice fire
We spirits are figures—in an ancient frieze
We come to life—like Fellini’s Satyricon
Then we fold back—into the screen
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