January, 1972 Archive

The Mill: A Winter Pastoral (17)

Monday, January 31st, 1972

Killing Time is Murder

Raymond and Paul called from Vancouver during dinner to say for the sixth time that they were leaving for Japan. I hate them with a furious boredom. I want to punch, cut, chop. I feel tall in my boots and stompy. I stare at my fists and forearms. I’m reading an intelligent bitchy book about intelligent bitchy people by an intelligent bitchy author–adultery the theme. I can tell how much J. resents my breaking off the affair, that she’s frustrated, that I cant satisfy her. The woman I knew while he was here–awakened, threatening, magnificent–has retreated behind a mask of resigned drudgery. The baby, the farm and I seem to mean to her what the Mill means to me.

I need love. I need love. I need love.

graveyard shift

The Mill: A Winter Pastoral (16)

Wednesday, January 19th, 1972

Last night I dreamed that J. was making love with Lynn who was six months pregnant, and she wouldnt pay attention to me. Then I was taking a piss and I discovered I had two penises, one hanging out of the fly in my briefs, the other out of my long johns. Only one was pissing but the other kept getting in the way. This morning I took a Compoz with my coffee.

The Mill: A Winter Pastoral (15)

Monday, January 17th, 1972

Yew Street Basement

Here is a still life: the wheel thrown pot
Amidst the grids and graphs and charts
Scales and rule, calendar and clock
On the steel top desk in the pulp-test station.

There is still life in the centered cup
That holds the instant coffee I must drink
To keep apace the thrumming frequency
Of the sprawled electric death machine I serve.

There is still life in the ceramic mug
The elemental spirit of the hands
That mold with Nature’s art the water’s flow
The glaze of fire, the earthly body’s clay.

Still life
Soft frozen
In stone
With thumb
I feel.

4-12 shift

The Mill: A Winter Pastoral (14)

Tuesday, January 11th, 1972


Your love is more than I deserve
Let me learn to treasure it
Without greed
Like the sinner loves his God
Who punishes
And cherishes his pain
Let me cherish pain
To purify my heart
That it may be transformed
Into a worthy sacrifice
To you.


Love me dirty, love me lewd
Keep your clothes on in the nude
Turn me inside out with lust
Send juices flowing through the crust
Of frazzled nerves and leathered skin
That locks my languished spirit in.


The worker’s goddess is his wife
The only meaning in his life.
To dignify his slavery
He raises her to high degree
Surrounds her with a million things
Home and kids and diamond rings.
When he’s about to lose his head
He remembers her in bed.
Lost his soul to please his Lord
Wielder of the mighty sword.