Ted Hughes: Three Crows Picking Your Brains Off the Sand (Heliotrope)

Leave a comment

March 14, 2023 by tsk2001

He replies with an impassioned recitation, as if he was standing at the podium, or maybe the lectern, at a reading at the Beverly Hills Barnes & Noble: “Cry heart, black liver, the huge muscles striving to pull tombed bowels.”

I pause in mild shock. Is Hank talking about me? I’ve got huge muscles and my bowels are certainly fucking tombed. I hope my fucking liver isn’t black, though.

“Black brain to stammer in the eye of a blood cry, lungs swelling with a suck-packed soul.”

“Hank, again, fuck your poetry. Where’s my mother? And what happened to the Rienzi Electric guy? Did you eat him?”

“Black furnace of a huge heart loud in the black light of tunnel vision, soul packed into bowels, tongue packed into brain.” Fuck, Hank’s really going at it, and this shit has a whole different tone. It’s fucking obscenely black.

G puts her arm around me and stares intently at Hank. “That’s not his poetry,” she says. “It’s the opening of Ted Hughes’ Crow, I think, but the words are all rearranged like a cut-up. We were talking about it, remember?”

“Yeah. And you were thinking about it and he read your mind, but there’s something wrong with him and he’s got it all screwed up?”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Creative Commons License
Death Palette, by Terry S. Kattleman, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License
%d bloggers like this: