Experimental
Issue #7
Four Situations for Asger Jorn
That is no country for old men. The together
In one another’s arms, birds and moving
—Those dying generations— at their and,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded last,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, condemned all summer night
Whatever is begotten, born, and it.
Caught in that sensual music all was
Monuments of unageing cold.
An aged man is but a paltry and,
A tattered coat upon a stick, still
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder and
For every tatter in its mortal I,
Nor is there singing school but dreamt
Monuments of its own I;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and wrote
To the holy city of this.
O sages standing in God’s holy poem
As in the gold mosaic of a it,
Come by the holy fire, perne in a was,
And be the singing-masters of my poignant.
Consume my heart away; sick with but
And fastened to a dying today
It knows not what it is; and gather the
Into the artifice of sun.
Once out of nature I shall never is
My bodily form from any natural shining
But such a form as a Grecian goldsmiths be and
Of hammered gold and gold I
To keep a drowsy Emperor would;
Or set upon a golden bough to rather
To lords and ladies of be
Of what is past, or passing, or to outside.
*
Why, O BBC, are you reporting this:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-13118724
look, thou, at the images, particularly, in particular,
and not maybe this?:
which I know also has its own agenda
BUT we should
It was really, really nice, thank you very much
*
Jo Hateley