An Imitation of John Berryman’s Dream Songs

Bleak as Jarndyce nights have to me grown.
To boil, Archie waits for his watched pot.
Mailbag elevators vertically march,
Lift me up to let me down.
Never is it Cressid’s five-fingered knot.
—A noose, more like. —That’s mad grim, Arch.

Upon Archie each woman behaves
As enzymes on the substrate &
For some final soul of his prepares:
Discarding like some poor poker hand.
—A pow’rful bad ace of hearts I has.
A message comes at me from somewheres.

(Archie wants to dodge the Ginsberg tax
& huddle sheltered darlings off to Zuider Zee.)
—Pal, don’t throw in some thirsty-hopeful figure
For to make friends, mothers & nuns relax.
—My thesaurus might call the shrink on me
For looking up better words, sadder, bigger.