I am outside life, and pour the sand
For my own desert, recklessly.
But if some flame splashes over from my arab hours
Into your dismal, shadow-bathing century...
...And burns you, gutter-polished citizen,
With my story - the drifting novocin of my horizon,
My oases, and my mirages, they're built of tears
And sheets and sheets of grey glass like an onion,
My story written in the sand! Laziness, despair,
Worlly pressures, traveling, & dirty clothes, the need for sleep,
Contempt for time - and more despair. Oh yes; I'm a writer
Daring enough to make the sand my paper,
It's done by living, ignoramuses. Isn't there always
The unreliability, the cool mouth-bite of a beloved body?
That's the desert - where I hurry...slowly, very slowly,
Sometimes...almost stock-still in a sand-drift...hurrying...
While dusty mobs pass, driven by the moon.
...If it blasts you, modernistsfobbed off
With dingy souls, inside a cetury that growls
For its carafe of shady air, oblivion, and psychiatric mash,
Start Drinking! I shall seduce you. From my desk,
The Soho of my driftig, yellowed sentences
Calls out your name...Choked-up joy splashes over
From this poem and you're crammed, stuffed to th brim, at dusk,
With hell's casual and jam-green happiness!!
Ah, pour yourself a desert, man-in-the-shadow-skin.
This last minute enamel re-satanizes Europe,
And you will become my arab and my citizen.
I was walking in this shado-bathing century
Pouring sand for my desert
From my desolate high spirits...
.....but recklessly, my arab and my citizen.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem