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BLACK KIEF AND THE INTELLECTUAL

I shall fill up that pit inside me
With my gloomiest thoughts; and then
Spread myself, prostrate, inert, on top of them.
Ah, miserable at last! Felicity.
Those who drink the sea with its fishy breath
Cannot know with what dread I gorge to death
On ideologies — bitter dogma, dialectic, creed;
H.P. sauce, ketchup, mayonnaise, chutney,
Filthy kitchen work that swindles, that says 'feed',
Dried-up certitude,  monkish inhibition, duty,
That helps us to fall downhill, mad as swine.
There, alone, I see my obligation. But let me begin
By describing my tiredness . . . a word on my depression.
BY ROSEMARY TONKS
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