To A Noisy Contemporary
Your ego’s bad dream drums that vision
Encountered on page one, pages three to eighty-nine.
Count the wound-up places where we went aground.
As an entertainment, zero. Hero horror. Try the line
Of incestuous relations, hearty friendship, or the cult
Of the ectoplasmic navel and the ravishments of guilt.
Page two was delightful. And the margins were wide;
One was tempted by the imagery of bloody wrists,
Your hysterogetic spasms and italicized reproofs.
You may well supplant the tuba if the music lasts.
poem by Weldon Kees
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