with the     Title of the Dead    Title of the Deed willed
     to me
and brought to me   by  a    mooringandlanguid man-in-a-coat    deadeyed dead-ended dead ugly
    who    asked me whether I owned anything
though   looked
                                     surprise!    (d)
      whenever I told him: But dear
   I cannot      hold a Title if-if-ifff  I have never
         lived but    (no less  
nevertheless    and nonetheless
    Not Withstanding death) will die, too.

There is no straight line      + it is cute mythology that soothes no one with a Title  
       straight lines are    for geometrynotpeople
     IHAVELIVEDHAVINGSAIDTHIS
and    I will steward the
    no, will PILOT the
              Dead
the Deed
          until it is done,
until it is                          unnamable.

hard     sell—the    sale of the
    idea that    those Golden Girls:
                           Rue/Bea/Bet/Get—
    are more existential
more    radically (Maud, folks!)   ******
    than any      Sartre translation—

and     that Nico,
      Christa, she:
          like a necrotic moth ate her own clothes
          died on her last *** run, a great stoner
          was finished rambling and gambling
These Days —    and  was more existential than
     any      loud Lou.

tail    wagging    wall   of tails wobbling
    wall-eyed     little ball banging    little tail
warring       a wag   with a finger   little ale  
     a good day   to    cry    with a little   ale
filling a balloon    with   the  toxic   breath    of  
      a    loud mouth    a good day   to be   at the tail-end.

In his own soft cocoon
of ever-coagulating, isolated
delirium, yodeling in the
company of himself alone,
a skull of mean bruised meat tarnishes.

Nosferatu     would have balked if not   gone bald.
    They,  too,    from themselves their selves do balk.
Circumnavigate     the   lily pond,
          Iron Lady in the    swaddling baking    egg pies,   with spited
     Curlers    in our    fronds   and — equanimity's edict — forest green-eyed addict —   is
A     plumbed    plum;    a dendritic denizen for    the   cypress,
Willow that   's hung!     Willow that sung!    Soothing it   hugs
     the    sights — such   sour honors  — so smooth-over the boy's club,      so you can get in or      out    whichever    youregoingfor;
bring    them their rose water   which drips   next to the
     chiffon and the    lubricated sewing table — the grape to-
  mato-mottled lunar  ligament: by  dew of the top lip, do lay —
     go gray    in taut winter