(from The Dream Songs)
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we outselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mothe told me as a boy
(reapeatedly) 'Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no
Inner Resources.' I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavily bored.
People bore me,
literature bores me, especially great liteature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as achilles,
who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somwhow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
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