I recall a boil, whereupon as I had to sit, <br />just where, and when I had to, for deadlines. <br />O I could learn to type standing, <br />but isn't it slim to be slumped off from that, <br />problems undignified, fiery dig salt mines?— <br />Content on one's black flat: <br /> <br />soming no deadline—is all ancient nonsense— <br />no typewriters—ha! ha!—no typewriters— <br />alas! <br />For I have much to open, I know immense <br />troubles & wonders to their secret curse. <br />Yet when erect on my ass, <br /> <br />pissed off, I sat two-square, I kept shut my mouth <br />and stilled my nimble fingers across keys. <br />That is I stood up. <br />Now since down I lay, void of love & ruth, <br />I'd howl my knowings, only there's the earth <br />overhead. Plop!<br /><br />John Berryman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-song-83-op-posth-no-6/
