Henry back at it— laid up in bed with a bad back—listening to the real blues on southern radio WLXT, Memphis, his whole body twisting and moaning form head to toes.
Reading his blog “Busted on Empty," the stories were hardly stories, more over, confessions of a guy on the ropes without much left. Henry liked his work, it was original, far from the others.
Of course he had a road map of sorts— writing about everything under the sun in the beginning and later writing about nothing in this world—
Henry’s work ethereal, a ramble in inner space—it seemed natural that a conscious writer would progress to the inner stuff as did John Berryman in “Dream Songs." His inner musings the stuff of pain, addiction and suicide— it was Berryman’s “Swan Song”—
It is fitting dear ones that we finish this riff with a bit from the mighty Berryman “Dream Songs” …
“Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) ‘Ever to confess you’re bored
means you have no
Inner Resources. I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as achilles,”
True lyric of confessional poetry…
Thank you John Berryman.