Sweeney In “The Waste Land”

Hey, Sweeney - 

It’s all at the beginning Cleanth,
Surrender your syntax Blackmur 
construct through Joseph’s watchful 
eye to disconnect mindful meaning 
in blasphemous contempt of temporal 
relationships. They delight en 
p’resence  de a’bsence.     

Glimpsed Spender today.  
Says you have fallen prey to Conrad;
Cannibalism and the dark magic 
Of the materialist corruption of
civilized consciousness.  

What about that “snippy” little chick from
Santa Barbara, “proleptically” she said. 

           “You Do The Police In Different Voices” 

Contemptus mundi, Sweeney -  

That is so cool.  But there’s enough chaos in you to make the world.

What bold stare this bourgeois dare
does not hold up the mirror to a simple gesture
that makes mere placeless swagger possible
to neglect Cooper’s Tiresian foresufferance.  

Datta.  Dayadhvam.  Damyata.  

Are you   .   .   .

Just clearing my throat.  New meds for this 
                             “Coy Mistress syndrome.” 

Christ has risen!!  To be juxtaposed about the 
Portrait of a lady.  Just Prufrock talk.                   

Maud you worthy battler
Haunting of the dead
Such verbal ambuscade 
This voice past so dread   

“Cloture bounds the erotic 
implications rendered vulnerable
to violate and lay bare these
precarious figures rejecting
revelations of dominated utterance.”  

Who’s  was that?   .   .   .

Shall I become the swallow?

As my eyes not gaten but straight
lids reborn then made again right
To transcend upon Nirvana’s light. 

It’s the dawn Sweeney, Kairos!

Da  Da  Da

What? 

The white-armed Fresca blinks, and yawns, 
and gapes, aroused from dreams of love and pleasant 
rapes. Electric summons of the busy bell, brings 
brisk Amanda to destroy the spell.

Ezra.    Ezra.   Ezra.

What?

Onomatopoeically speaking   .    .     .

So cool!  .   ,   ,   this Mystic Synthesis,  Sweeney. 

Cool.   So cool.

I have bargained from distant voices
Surrendered to Pound his due
Fondled  rich sources of penitence
Saved waste the fruits of our decay to
Shake out the ashes from amid the 
Glowing coals, leaving the luminous bits
To discover, callow or vitriolic,  their own
Unexpected Socratic affinities.

So Cool.   So cool.   So cool.

Your thoughts, Sweeney? - 

I’ll wait until you’re dead.
  
                                                           Châz