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Dream Song 84: Op. posth. no. 7

Dream Song 84: Op. posth. no. 7

Plop, plop. The lobster toppled in the pot,
Fulfilling, dislike man, his destiny,
Glowing fire-red,
Succulent, and on the whole becoming what
Man wants. I crack my final claw singly,
Wind up the grave, & to bed.

€”Sound good, Mr Bones. I wish I had me some.
(I spose you got a lessen up your slave.)
€”O no no no.
Sole I remember; where no lobster swine, —
Pots hot or cold is none. With you I grieve
Lightly, and I have no lesson.

Bodies are relishy, they say. Here’s mine,
Was. What ever happened to Political Economy,
Leaving me here?
Is a rare—in my opinion—responsibility.
The military establishments perpetuate themselves forever.
Have a bite, for a sign.



Poem Dream Song 84: Op. posth. no. 7 - John Berryman
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