III
(Dear T.S.E)

Let us go . . .

Let us move ourselves

Upon this vast ocean of bleak words,

And lift our heads above the bland amoebic waves

In search of Images

To fill the mind

With the prolific riches of existence.

Language dissolves in the procession of brute facts

Where order is some frightened figment of the mind.

Are there no more metaphors

Making new melodies of meaning,

Creating curious marriages

Whose children are fresh sensibilities born

From being bored by ancient artifice?

What world is left

But undiscovered chaos

In emanations we extract

In formless fantasies?

Revelling in unconscious implosions---

The inward grotesque manipulation

Of awareness unaware. . .

Where trees bend not to light, but to darkness,

We are impressed

Only by the magnitude

Of our unknowing knowledge.