Andrew Marzoni

Added on by Andrew Marzoni.

III

We might have coupled

In the bed-ridden monopoly of a moment

Or broken flesh with one another

At the profane communion table

Where wine is spill’d on promiscuous lips

We might have given birth to a butterfly

With the daily news

Printed in blood on its wings

*          *          *

VI

I know the Wire-Puller intimately

And if it were not for the people

On whom you keep one eye

You could look straight at me

And Time would be set back

*          *          *

IX

When we lifted

Our eye-lids on Love

A cosmos

Of coloured voices

And laughing honey

And spermatazoa

At the core of Nothing

In the milk of the Moon

X

Shuttle-cock and battle-door

A little pink-love

And feathers are strewn

*          *          *

XV

Seldom     Trying for Love

Fantasy dealt them out as gods

Two or three men     looked only human

But you alone

Superhuman     apparently

I had to be caught in the weak eddy

Of your drivelling humanity

               To love you most

*          *          *

XXIII

The prig of passion – – – –

To your professional paucity

Proto-plasm was raving mad

Evolving us – – – –

XXXIV

Love – – – the preeminent litterateur

—Mina Loy, from “Songs to Joannes” (1915-1917)

Her Lips Are Copper Wire

Added on by Andrew Marzoni.

whisper of yellow globes

gleaming on lamp-posts that sway

like bootleg licker drinkers in the fog

and let your breath be moist against me

like bright beads on yellow globes

telephone the power-house

that the main wires are insulate

(her words play softly up and down

dewy corridors of billboards)

then with your tongue remove the tape

and press your lips to mine

till they are incandescent

—Jean Toomer, from Cane (1923)

Added on by Andrew Marzoni.
Her dress was of some fine, costly stuff. I suggested the park, and then added that the grass might stain her skirt. Let it get stained, she said, for where it came from there are others.
— Jean Toomer, Cane (1923)

Cousins, Far Removed: Terry Eagleton Takes a Snide Turn, Picks a Fight with America

Added on by Andrew Marzoni.

Oh hey, look, I wrote this thing.

i am writing you a love letter

Added on by Andrew Marzoni.

I am writing you a love letter

from the lobby of the bad motel

as i wait for a call for my car to be fixed or not be fixed
and m––– is gchatting me about her boyfriend
who wrote her an e-mail––that may or may not be manipulative,
but we think it’s not, an e-mail that references the “winter
when he was watching too much basketball”

The Cat and the Saxophone (2 a.m.)

Added on by Andrew Marzoni.

EVERYBODY

Half-pint,––

Gin?

No, make it

LOVES MY BABY

corn. You like

liquor,

don’t you, honey?

BUT MY BABY

Sure. Kiss me,

DON’T LOVE NOBODY

daddy.

BUT ME.

Say!

EVERYBODY

Yes?

WANTS MY BABY

I’m your

BUT MY BABY

sweetie, ain’t I?

DON’T WANT NOBODY

Sure.

BUT

Then let’s

ME,

do it!

SWEET ME.

Charleston,

mamma!

!

––Langston Hughes (1926)

Added on by Andrew Marzoni.
The school teacher tried to bring home to the mind of the boy some conception of the difficulties he would have to face as a writer. ‘You will have to know life,’ she declared, and her voice trembled with earnestness. She took hold of George Willard’s shoulders and turned him about so that she could look into his eyes. A passer-by might have thought them about to embrace. ‘If you are to become a writer you’ll have to stop fooling with words,’ she explained. ‘It would be better to give up the notion of writing until you are better prepared. Now it’s time to be living. I don’t want to frighten you, but I would like to make you understand the import of what you think of attempting. You must not become a mere peddler of words. The thing to learn is to know what people are thinking about, not what they say.’
— Sherwood Anderson, Winesburg, Ohio (“The Teacher”; 1919)

Having a Coke with You

Added on by Andrew Marzoni.

is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles

and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them

I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse

it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it

 

—Frank O’Hara

My Suggested First Line For My Friend Seth's "History Of The Beatles" Final Paper, Which Will Be Graded By An Obvious Tom Waits Fetishist

Added on by Andrew Marzoni.

I first “got” the Beatles in the middle of my fourth line of blow, three-quarters of the way through a bottle of four-dollar Shiraz, as a whore named Rosemary danced around our motel room naked, flailing her bruised arms to the sitar twangs of “Norwegian Wood.”