Kenneth Patchen

Eve of St. Agony or the Middle Class
Was Sitting On Its Fat

Man-dirt and stomachs that the sea unloads; rockets
Of quick lice crawling inland, planting their damn flags,
Putting their malethings in any hole that will stand still,
Yapping bloody murder while they slice off each other’s heads,
Spewing themselves around, priesting, whoring, lording
It over little guys, messing their pants, writing gush-notes
To their grandmas, wanting somebody to do something pronto,
Wanting the good thing right now and the bad stuff 
         for the other boy.
Gullet, praise God for the gut with the patented zipper;
Sing loud for the lads who sell ice boxes on the burning deck.
Dear reader, gentle reader, dainty little reader, this is
The way we go round the milktrucks and seamusic, Sike’s trap 
         and Meg’s rib,
The wobbly sparrow with two strikes on the bible, behave
Alfred, your pokus is out; I used to collect old ladies,
Pickling them in brine and painting mustaches on their bellies,
Later I went in for stripteasing before Save Democracy Clubs;
When the joint was raided we were all caught with our 
         pants down.
But I will say this: I like butter on both sides of my bread
And my sister can rape a Hun any time she’s a mind to,
Or the Yellow Peril for that matter; Hector, your papa’s 
         in the lobby.
The old days were different; the ball scores meant something then,
Two ball in the side pocket and two bits says so; he got up 
         slow see,
Shook the water out of his hair, wham, tell me that ain’t a sweet 
         left hand;
I told her what to do and we did it, Jesus I said, is your name 
Maybe it was the beer or because she was only sixteen 
         but I got hoarse
Just thinking about her; married a john who travels in cotton 
Now you take today; I don’t want it. Wessex, who was that with 
         I saw you lady?
Tony gave all his dough to the church; Lizzie believed in feeding 
         her own face;
And that’s why you’ll never meet a worm who isn’t an 
         antichrist, my friend,
I mean when you get down to a brass tack you’ll find some sucker 
         sitting on it.
Whereas. Muckle’s whip and Jessie’s rod, boyo, it sure looks black
In the gut of this particular whale. Hilda, is that a .38 
         in your handbag?

         Ghosts in packs like dogs grinning at ghosts
         Pocketless thieves in a city that never sleeps
         Chains clank, warders curse, this go is wenting fast! 

Take it from me, neighbor, there’s one hell of
A cowardly new world a-sneaking up on you.