Vers de Société

My wife and I have asked a crowd of craps / To come and waste their time and ours: perhaps / You’d care to join us? In a pig’s arse, friend. / Day comes to an end. / The gas fire breathes, the trees are darkly swayed. / And so Dear Warlock-Williams: I’m afraid — // Funny how hard it is to be alone. / I could spend half my evenings, if I wanted, / Holding a glass of washing sherry, canted / Over to catch the drivel of some bitch / Who’s read nothing but Which; / Just think of all the spare time that has flown // Straight into nothingness by being filled / With forks and faces, rather than repaid / Under a lamp, hearing the noise of wind, / And looking out to see the moon thinned / To an air-sharpened blade. / A life, and yet how sternly it’s instilled // All solitude is selfish. No one now / Believes the hermit with his gown and dish / Talking to God (who’s gone too); the big wish / Is to have people nice to you, which means / Doing it back somehow. / Virtue is social. Are, then, these routines // Playing at goodness, like going to church? / Something that bores us, something we don’t do well / (Asking that ass about his fool research) / But try to feel, because, however crudely, / It shows us what should be? / Too subtle, that. Too decent, too. Oh hell, // Only the young can be alone freely. / The time is shorter now for company, / And sitting by a lamp more often brings / Not peace, but other things. / Beyond the light stand failure and remorse / Whispering Dear Warlock-Williams: Why, of course —