It happens that the comic is tired of being a comic.
It happens that the comic goes into the tailors' shops and the movies
all shriveled up, impenetrable, like a felt swan
navigating on a water of origin and ash.

The smell of barber shops makes the comic sob out loud.
The comic wants nothing but the repose either of stones or of wool,
The comic wants to see no more establishments, no more gardens,
nor merchandise, nor glasses, nor elevators.

It happens that the comic is tired of its feet and its nails
and its hair and its shadow.
It happens that the comic is tired of being a comic.

Just the same it would be delicious
to scare a notary with a cut lily
or knock a nun stone dead with one blow of an ear.
It would be beautiful
to go through the streets with a green knife
shouting until the comic died of cold.

The comic does not want to go on being a root in the dark,
hesitating, stretched out, shivering with dreams,
downwards, in the wet tripe of the earth,
soaking it up and thinking, eating everyday.

The comic does not want to be the inheritor of so many misfortunes.
The comic does not want to continue as a root and as a tomb,
as a solitary tunnel, as a cellar full of corpses,
stiff with cold, dying with pain.

For this reason Monday burns like oil
at the sight of the comic arriving with its jail-face,
and it howls in passing like a wounded wheel, and its footsteps towards night fall are filled with hot blood.

And it shoves the comic along to certain corners, to certain damp houses,
to hospitals where the bones come out of the windows,
to certain cobblers' shops smelling of vinegar,
to streets horrendous as crevices.

There are birds the colour of sulphur, and horrible intestines
hanging from the doors of the houses which the comic hates,
there are forgotten sets of teeth in a coffee pot,
there are mirrors
which should have wept with shame and horror,
there are umbrellas all over the place, and poisons, and navels.

The comic strides along with calm, with eyes, with shoes,
with fury, with forgetfulness,
The comic passes, the comic crosses offices and stores full of orthopedic appliances,
and courtyards hung with clothes on wires,
underpants, towels and shirts which weep
slow dirty tears.

apologies to Neruda and Space Ghost

culturecrisis is the realization that Carter Adams will be too boring for himself without some sort of creative output.