Samuel Beckett
WHOROSCOPE
What’s that?
An egg?
By the brothers Boot it stinks fresh.
Give it to Gillot.
Galileo how are you
And his consecutive thirds!
The vile old Copernican lead-swinging son of a
sutler!
We’re moving he said we are off – Porca
Madonna!
the way a boatswain would be, or a sack-of-
potatoey charging Pretender.
That’s moving, that’s moving.
What’s that?
A little green fry or a mushroom one?
Two lashed ovaries with prostisciutto?
How long did she womb it, the feathery one?
Three days and four nights?
Give it to Gillot.
Faulhaber, Beeckman and Peter the Red,
come now in the cloudy avalanche or Gassendy’s
sun-red crystally cloud
and I’ll pebble you all your hen-and-a-half ones
or I’ll pebble a lens under the quilt in the midst
of day.
To think he was my own brother, Peter the
Bruiser,
and not a syllogism out of him
no more than if Pa were still in it.
Hey! pass over those coppers,
sweet milled sweat of my burning liver!
Them were the days I sat in the hot-cupboard
throwing Jesuits out of the skylights.
Who’s that? Hals?
Let him wait.
My squinty doaty!
I hid and you sook.
And Francine my precious fruit of a house-and-
parlour foetus!
What an exfoliation!
Her little grey flayed epidermis and scarlet
Tonsils!
My one child
scourged by a fever to stagnant murky blood—
blood!
Oh Harvey
beloved
how shall the red and white, the many in the
few,
(dear boodswirling Harvey )
eddy through that crack beater?
And the fourth Henry came to the crypt of the
arrow.
What’s that?
How long?
Sit on it.
A wind of evil flung my despair of ease
against the sharp spires of the one
lady:
not one or twice but…
(Kip of Christ hatch it!)
in the one sun’s drowning
(Jesuitatsters please copy).
So on with the silk hose over the knitted, and
the morbid leather—
what I am saying! the gentle canvas—
and away to Ancona on the
bright Adriatic ,
and farewell for a space to the yellow key of
the Rosicrucians.
They don’t know what the master of them that
do did,
that the nose is touched by the kiss of all foul
and sweet air,
and the drums, and the throne of the faecal
inlet,
and the eyes by its zig-zags.
So we drink Him and eat Him
and the watery Beaune and the stale cubes of
Hovis
because He can jig
as near or as far from His Jigging Self
and as sad or lively as the chalice or the tray asks.
How’s that, Antonio?
In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up
That egg?
Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?
Anna-Maria!
She reads Moses and says her love is crucified.
Leider! Leider! she bloomed and withered,
a pale abusive parakeet in a mainstreet window.
No I believe every word of it I assure you.
Fallor, ergo sum!
The coy old froleur!
He tolle’d and legge’d
and he buttoned on his redemptorist waistcoat.
No matter. Let it pass.
I’m bold boy I know
so I’m not my son
(even if I were a concierge)
Nor Joachim my father’s
but the chip of a perfect block that’s neither old
nor new,
the lonely petal of a great high bright rose.
Are you ripe at last,
my slim pale double-breasted turd?
How rich she smells,
this abortion of a fledgling!
I will eat it with a fish fork.
White and yolk and feathers.
Then I will rise and move moving
toward Rahab of the snows,
the murdering matinal pope—confessed amazon,
Christina the riper.
Oh Weulles spare the blood of a Frank
Who has climbed the bitter steps,
(Rene’ du Peron…!)
And grant me my second
starless inscrutable hour.
(1930)
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