Grain & Water, weather’s good
Kept the sheep in their pens all night despite the wintry frost. A roach curled up and went to rest upon the mantle, like a little dead hen in foxy grins. Carried away on the back of the young, gilded like fine chandeliers, significance lost; young and wily, stricken; but good and strong and together. “I believe in you,” he said, “you are strong, you are sincere, like me – keep on painting, keep on it, they are beautiful, they are beautiful and good like you, their artist;” he said, “Here we are all, together, and having a fine time of it. What would you like for christmas?” And his friend said, “I would like to be together too and part of a home, I just want to be with you this Christmas and sober and decent,” but ever was he decent, if not impassioned by poetic vigor, if not inspired by the flightless drive of living life, the madness which fits in the head of a needle, precise and fine and elegant.
So together they dined on water and grain, together inside whilst outside it rained, safe and sound and warm together. There were newspapers on the wall and dogs in the asylum. When the rain let up the meteors fell and bore their proper awe. Men with brows like furrowed rigor stand apart and stare afield in visionary witness, men of long familiarity with the nascent phenomena of cosmic affairs, the transcendent implication of self and selfless being; men who raise their hands to one another’s shoulders in support, men with ten toes firmly down. Two men is all it took to bring an end to one another; two men with goodness in their hearts, with glints in their eyes, with proudly trimmed heads and fanciful names. Joyce and Byron Dean, Cool Hand, drearily dreamt, one after another, in proud and straight procession, like noblemen, like kings.
Seasons, weather, crops and plains, plainly vague and reminiscent, plainly lost and broken, plainly laid like precious gems and trampled on by heels, unbecoming as a thriving snake den, don’t you forget a word of it, don’t you ignore a word of it, it’s as close to something honest as there is, it’s tender and sublime and shattered into countless quiet pieces, shy and deeply resonant.
One night a fellow gent went walking yonder through those haunting woods, woodaxe ready in his hand, and found himself an evergreen.