Issue 40, Winter-Spring 1967
That glass, bubble-bodied, dream-fetus of shadow-pallor,
Which will never enter life,
Looms like the negative
Of a clumsy, weary and ageing man’s failure.
Men that have been bending all their lives
In the one dim lamp of a pension
To lift their needs, relax as in graves,
Lifeless but for the eye-gleams of attention.
They haze and sip, like a mountain-range in the dew.
These are the Giant Stupids.
They are grimy to the spinal fluid
As if they slept nightly in the earth.
Mankind floats up the air in a peephole cloud—
They can’t comprehend. They undergo it like death.
They swallow all its drizzling nothings, like the mild earth.