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Cocklepickers. They waded a little way in the water
and, stooping, soused their bags and, lifting them again,
waded out. The dog yelped running to them, reared up
and pawed them, dropping on all fours, again reared up at
them with mute bearish fawning. Unheeded he kept by
them as they came towards the drier sand, a rag of wolf’s
tongue redpanting from his jaws. His speckled body
ambled ahead of them and then loped off at a calf’s gallop.
The carcass lay on his path. He stopped, sniffed, stalked
round it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffling
rapidly like a dog all over the dead dog’s bedraggled fell.
Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the ground, moves to one
great goal. Ah, poor dogsbody! Here lies poor dogsbody’s
body.
—Tatters! Out of that, you mongrel!
The cry brought him skulking back to his master and a
blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of
sand, crouched in flight. He slunk back in a curve.
Doesn’t see me. Along by the edge of the mole he
lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock. and from under a cocked
hindleg pissed against it. He trotted forward and, lifting
again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock.
The simple pleasures of the poor. His hindpaws then
scattered the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved.
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Something he buried there, his grandmother. He rooted in
the sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the air,
scraped up the sand again with a fury of his claws, soon
ceasing, a pard, a panther, got in spousebreach, vulturing
the dead.
After he woke me last night same dream or was it?
Wait. Open hallway. Street of harlots. Remember.
Haroun al Raschid. I am almosting it. That man led me,
spoke. I was not afraid. The melon he had he held against
my face. Smiled: creamfruit smell. That was the rule, said.
In. Come. Red carpet spread. You will see who.
Shouldering their bags they trudged, the red Egyptians.
His blued feet out of turnedup trousers slapped the
clammy sand, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven
neck. With woman steps she followed: the ruffian and his
strolling mort. Spoils slung at her back. Loose sand and
shellgrit crusted her bare feet. About her windraw face
hair trailed. Behind her lord, his helpmate, bing awast to
Romeville. When night hides her body’s flaws calling
under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have
mired. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in
O’Loughlin’s of Blackpitts. Buss her, wap in rogues’ rum
lingo, for, O, my dimber wapping dell! A shefiend’s
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whiteness under her rancid rags. Fumbally’s lane that
night: the tanyard smells.
White thy fambles, red thy gan
And thy quarrons dainty is.
Couch a hogshead with me then.
In the darkmans clip and kiss.
Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, frate
porcospino. Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. Call away
let him: thy quarrons dainty is. Language no whit worse
than his. Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles:
roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets.
Passing now.
A side eye at my Hamlet hat. If I were suddenly naked
here as I sit? I am not. Across the sands of all the world,
followed by the sun’s flaming sword, to the west, trekking
to evening lands. She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags,
trascines her load. A tide westering, moondrawn, in her
wake. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, blood not mine,
oinopa ponton, a winedark sea. Behold the handmaid of the
moon. In sleep the wet sign calls her hour, bids her rise.
Bridebed, childbed, bed of death, ghostcandled. Omnis caro
ad te veniet. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his
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eyes, his bat sails bloodying the sea, mouth to her mouth’s
kiss.
Here. Put a pin in that chap, will you? My tablets.
Mouth to her kiss.
No. Must be two of em. Glue em well. Mouth to her
mouth’s kiss.
His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth
to her moomb. Oomb, allwombing tomb. His mouth
moulded issuing breath, unspeeched: ooeeehah: roar of
cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring
wayawayawayawayaway. Paper. The banknotes, blast
them. Old Deasy’s letter. Here. Thanking you for the
hospitality tear the blank end off. Turning his back to the
sun he bent over far to a table of rock and scribbled words.
That’s twice I forgot to take slips from the library counter.
His shadow lay over the rocks as he bent, ending. Why
not endless till the farthest star? Darkly they are there
behind this light, darkness shining in the brightness, delta
of Cassiopeia, worlds. Me sits there with his augur’s rod of
ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside a livid sea,
unbeheld, in violet night walking beneath a reign of
uncouth stars. I throw this ended shadow from me,
manshape ineluctable, call it back. Endless, would it be
mine, form of my form? Who watches me here? Who
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