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More poems by John BerrymanJohn Berryman | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments | Books by John BerrymanBooks by John Berryman

Dream Song 99: Temples

John Berryman

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.

Added: 25 Mar 2002 | Last Read: 19 Jul 2018 11:12 PM | Viewed: 4032 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/3691/ | Viewed on 19 July 2018.
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