Concerning the works of Room 13: Osseous,

All artwork and words are original to
Hannah Carpenter Pitkin unless noted otherwise.



Oil on Acrylic


for spacious skies

oil on acrylic on stretch canvas 
24" x 18"
[intricate details not appropriately displayed. shite picture. i'm on it.]

Belly Cast

Finished belly cast for a friend. Dec. 27, 2012.


'again with the fucking fingers.'
'but they're metallic now. eerie flesh. short stories don't come from hands like these.'


material, immaterial

Inertia is a stampede. A thick horn between my breasts, or a very heavy fellow who tips coins between my steps, who even dreams where I do. There's aces between might (noun) where only a lampshade could save you now, from start to finish fist roaring acres of sad sighs, frozen pitch-ina-dead-heat, I'll spy upon metaphors when I'm older. Now sleep in sheep's wool, wake next upon shames of a shady mother.

But inertia, when in neutral and barreling into a fake tit of a hill, and tugged by science o'er peak and thru valley, is a monumental act of nature to be reckoned with. You cannot stop, you cannot.

sat dec 22 12:36

what then, would be worth
counting the lines in my knuckles
after i've already type written letters
to an old address
which wont they be forwarded?
but three weeks later i've red inked my wrists
with all the piles of returned, stamped,
fucked on envelopes

it used to be that a man on a horse
would make goddamned sure
that the cunt on the other end of my ink
would read every last bitch of a word
and then ride on home to tell me how
goddamned validated i should feel

well so what i like old fashioned.
but goddamnit do i love streaming the oddball films, too.
and i like knowing what movie elses they directed
and whos worth another role
and what not and pictures of bird skulls
and oddball homemade posters to films i havent even seen yet
but that i go to sleep obsessing over

 and then there's this thought about getting into the biz
and how horrible that will be but how much pressure there is
to just be horrible with it
because its making another reality in this already fucked one we share
and isn't that the bees knees and how badly do i want to just
play pretend and hate every second of it.

 send me to school mommy,
make me mean daddy.
i oughta just sell some eggs, lay some other broad's baby
just so i can afford the plane ticket and rent to hate the next city
as much as i hated the last

and why wouldnt that be the solution to humanity
i dont get it otherwise.
what's a drunken joy if it's shallow
who do you really know
who do you think you're getting chummy with,
another asshole like me who talks a lot about art
and fucking and likes to dance 'freely'

and then goes home and frowns softly
while they fall asleep to casablanca
wishing they could be Bogart's little spoon for just one night,
just one melodic night where his voice is more than private dick or
soft hero, it's just some voice that makes you sleep through one fucking night
without waking up after having the sensation of being vacuumed into
a horrible deamon like alternative personality that hides in a cornfield.

well so fuck it, hollywood seems like the perfect fit for a
shit head like me.
what's one more nightmare, what's the horror in it if i'm awake
and i can really feel it for real this time
and not wake in a cold sweat
wondering how close to some sweet terror i had actually been.


Unknown Livingrooms

Photographs taken by my Great Grandmother, Natalie Norton, mother to Barbara Blachly, who mothered Mary Carpenter, who mothered me.

I find them fascinating. 


The Perfect Human

 Jørgen Leth, 1967
Lars von Trier was so fascinated by Leth's film that 'The Five Obstructions' was created. See below 'The Perfect Human.'



Untitled / Woman's Back

Acrylic on stretched canvas. 4' by 5'.


Untitled: Naphthol, Cadmium, Mars Black

Acrylic on stretch canvas triptych. 2' by 4' panels. Gone now, forever.
A style I'll likely trend towards again.


Skulls on the shelves
Many times the same,
No new view, no names
I forgot how morbid it is.

What a lovely burden;
A horrible song to write.
Of all the men I know
He's the one to set the tone.





oily film and fruit flies nasty flies and men in my bathroom laughing with an audience, holy wars holy wars i mean i mean a slight breakdown and a friendly til later brother. it's not the talk, it's never been the talk, don't worry it down don't beat it raw just tend and walk on until i'm lost in the hue of molded skull collections by the swamp.


pink eye
across the bar,
wave hell
'what a brave lad'
a shake of the head
shiver of spines
old green trees in the morning,
 ever autumn bite
salut! salut!


a Blue Moon only by name swoons from a treble throat

a strange rain
swooning from treble throats,
swooning from treble throats,

strange rain and a cricket in the hall,
stinging songs of lineage
crack in the plaster, leaking a strange swing
all swooning from swollen troughs

terrible round moons
a strange rain in August


a friend of a friend of a friend


when rust collects on the underside
who can give me an example
[hint hint]
more violence

Hugo, thank you.
it's in your lung.
the stage: 3A,
'catch me if you can'

how long,
how long.
she's not a goldmine goddamnit. fuck the hell off and get pissed. you're a sack of wide deep shit that smells like a dead animal who ate a dead pack of rats that had worms that had recently fucked death in the face. death's got bad breath. baddddd fucking breath, just like you, you ass whoring pimp son of a stupid cunt. pardon me, miss. pardon. but look at the coal. there's no soft metal inside. it's darkness, through and through.
sit him down.
get it all on the table.

family meeting.




Salty Leads


You Never Visit Anymore

I'd hear the neighbor taking a cold shower.
mostly lonesome.

He was meaty. Liked bikes and the galaxy.
His nephew would call every other week or so and I'd hear him tell tall tales.

On the other side was a big bitch.
Rap, rap, rap against the wall with what I presumed to be a broom or some horribly cliche witch-type-tool.

Beneath was the rotten ground where once Native Americans were slain and buried.
Not sacred I'm sure, but rotten with the meat of old humans.

Outside most mornings was a bald cat that I dubbed Leonard or Leona depending on my mood.

The place suited me just fine.
I imagine the landlord burned it for insurance purposes, and not for its lack of character.
Note. 12:19 AM. Monday August 6.

Fresh basil reminds me of my family. I made hamburgers tonight. And bruschetta. And baked potato slices. And grilled onions and mushrooms. And Jer made Brussels sprouts. And I made banana bread. And rum and cream sodas. And a fresh garden salad with help/fresh veggies from Pete. And we have untouched ice cream in the fridge. And red wine and beer. And paintings on the wall. And a magnificent cow skull on the table

Forget what you thought about who I am and remember the burgers and skull the most. They come from the same family. They feed and honor our house tonight. And for nights to come. Not greed, but an assorted Thanks.

Time to pretend to sleep.


Film Observations as of End July, 2012

I have watched the following movies in the past week or so. The recurrence of actors astounds me. By chance.

Manderlay (Lars Von Trier) starring Isaach De Bankole
HBO Show: Boardwalk Empire (Terence Winter) featuring Paz de la Huerta (focusing on mob bosses rigging elections)
Limits of Control (Jim Jarmusch) starring Isaach De Bankole AND Paz de la Huerta
The Diving Bell and Butteryfly (Julian Schnabel) starring Emmanuelle Seigner, Isaach De Bankole, and Olatz López Garmendia 
Before Night Falls (Julian Schnabel) starring Olatz López Garmendia
the band: Ultra Orange & Emmanuel, featuring Emmanuelle Seigner
Motorcycle Diaries (Walter Salles) featuring Gael García Bernal
Y Tu Mama Tambien (Alfonso Cuarón) featuring Gael García Bernal
The Maltese Falcon (John Huston) featuring Humphrey Bogart
The Woman In The Window (Fritz Lang) featuring Edward G. Robinson
Key Largo (John Huston) featuring Edward G. Robinson AND Humphrey Bogart (focusing on mob bosses rigging elections)

Also watched:
Dogtooth by Giorgos Lanthimos, which was absolutely incredible.
Fearless by Ronny Yu, which stars Jet Li, and is a visually stimulating look at the life of Huo Yuanjia, founder of Chin Woo Athletic Association.
Santa Sangre, The Holy Mountain, and El Topo all by Alejandro Jodorowsky, and all of which are extremely fucked but are incredibly interesting investigations of the human psyche, (and the individual psyche of Alejandro Jodorowsky,) and all of which I would recommend.
Obviously endless reruns of Star Trek; The Next Generation (Gene Roddenberry), and Twin Peaks (David Lynch, Mark Frost).
Also just saw The Dark Night Rises, which I was very pleased with. Note: not blown away, but very pleased with.


wherein you made your wife and children bark like dogs at the gate of your home.


the ties, of course, are not to me. you'd think, but you'd be wrong.
The beauty undressed
Is merely a thousand peasants.

It is not a dream.


while coming home and on the road
our worry is that we might find a false-hood.
like when Bruegel held to :
and Pollock was a misogynist.


Tears of Abigail


The second breath,
Upon our fermentation
Gave Apollo reason
For noting the skies.
Between whiles, as he'd say,
The enchantment was
The best non-fiction.
Our hermitage allows
Deconstruction of gallows.
Where once we swayed
Arching neck and knee,
We now accept our following,
Speaking in tongues, and
Bending to beats.
_______ continued to speak of daggers with what all - the delicacy of their finely scored handles and their wrists 'so much like that of my own arm,' ever swaying and inside of a drifting chasm of anchor blood, that yes, yes empty into an 'ocean of soullessness and frowning Gods.' I do not care. _______'s description was un-suiting and offensive to me because I saw the Gods as _______ did and there was not a frown about, and in fact I found the red sea quite exhilarating and full of ambition. I'll keep it with mine, I once heard, and so like she did, I will as well foster under my skin the smiling God-work and taste for the petty and the grand. _______ is silent.


Before The Last Tin Roof

the last we spoke I told you the blackness of her ankle had clouded her eyes. it wasn't gentile, I assure you, and she does not feast on her gran's apple pies in heaven, nor does her voice ring like silver spoons together, in rhythm, hard and soft against the fat thigh of neighbour *****a. you should have forgotten her by now but every slender now and again you lay limp wafting in her lulls and feeling the loose reminders of her airy breath in the night when she bathed in the shallows and spoke softly to her pet chicken in the half moon light not complaining and not wishing for more than but a bite to eat. a tiny child waded there, barely speaking words, white little fingers through her brown clumps of hair.



a miraculously red birth.
Slowed heart,
skin of caveat.
Your mother hated you
for tearing her
the way
you did.

There was a small procession.
The tile was bare.

Naked you came.
Yet dressed as an angel

when we lowered you into the womb.



Chapter Doom: With A Smile

the bum broke her nose for five dollars.
      smooth fingertips after the slough off.

he'll hunt her until she's dead.


you have the most glorious laugh


and unexpectedly
 from her hands
were chimes
of the Devil himself
 singing the most holy
chorus of Amazing Grace
fooling all the children
into a march

strong footsteps
 such small feet


only the glaze between them was bursting, wetting all sights, campaigning in earnest without the clan backing. to the side, an off putting elder caressed his thighs, appreciative of the warmth in his own fingers. unimpressive gallows. letting past as past be let. they built new homes in the desert, wells a thousand years beneath them.


in a blue roundabout way it was placed in my palms, arrested and small. horrified by my monstrous wings of flesh. it breathed terribly. most small things are unforgiving, and rightly so was it.

A New Home

I went down into thought,
Where many a time I had been,

I saw you,
It was dawn,
There were jackasses through the yard
And I heard you swear
You'd kill them all.

I hear you,
When I sleep.
I hear you say,

'I'll kill them all.'




open your mail. i sent my pinky for your stir fry.

when hannah had had too many cigars and too much whiskey

when i ash you out my window i want you naked.

stop talking to your smokes.

when they drove past a grave marked with flowers and white picket fence in the desert near a racing dune,

they buried a little baby human out there. in the dunes where the lake used to be. nevada. gamble your money, gamble your kids.
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Handmade paper from the mid 1400s made by Peter Schöffer, apprentice to the father of modern typography, Johannes Gutenberg.
Most likely made in Strasbourg where Gutenberg kept his studio.



walnut ink
1:1 husk (lb), water (gal.)
boil, sit, cool 1 day - 30 days


sculpture, wood block, handmade paper


| studio | darkroom |


research human | nature junction

:prisons, institutions (architecture, history, politics, economics)
'many of my neighbors came here because they have family in the prison.' 


reflexive |riˈfleksiv|


(of a method or theory in the social sciences) taking account of itself or of the effect of the personality or presence of the researcher on what is being investigated.
Laughing every moment on the lost highway
Laughing when I come home
Laughing when I leave again


2:38 PM, Tuesday, The Strip

'I have one in the back. Two fifty.'

I'll wait here.

'Two fifty.'


This asshole punk little shit with a faux hawk thinks pretty highly of himself, don't he now.

'Yeah here it is. You want it?'

Let me hold it.

'Jesus Christ you ain't never held one before? It's like all the rest.'

Let me hold it.

'Okay okay, here.'

Keep fucking off and I'll take it for free and use your skull as a goddamn tray for my after-dinner blow. Goddamn fucking punks.

One twenty-five.

'One twenty-five!? No, no I can't do that for you.'

One twenty-five.

'Listen. I'll do you, uh -- I'll do you two. S'low as I can get, buddy.'

One twenty-five.

'...Guy. I don't know who the fuck you think you are. And frankly, I do not give a fuck. You take this for two, you turn your fat ass around to the door, and you wobble yourself to the old goddamn folks home down the way. You got that?'

He's baring his teeth. 


He shouldn't bare his teeth like that.


Jesus. Franky, clean that shit up.


some rich bastard might have tossed it out with his empties

The Waste Land

by T.S. Eliot

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing 
Memory and desire, stirring 
Dull roots with spring rain. 
Winter kept us warm, covering         5
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding 
A little life with dried tubers. 
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee 
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, 
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,  10
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. 
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. 
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s, 
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, 
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,  15
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. 
In the mountains, there you feel free. 
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. 
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow 
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,  20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only 
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, 
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, 
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only 
There is shadow under this red rock,  25
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock), 
And I will show you something different from either 
Your shadow at morning striding behind you 
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; 
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.  30
        Frisch weht der Wind 
        Der Heimat zu, 
        Mein Irisch Kind, 
        Wo weilest du? 
“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;  35
They called me the hyacinth girl.” 
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, 
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not 
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither 
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,  40
Looking into the heart of light, the silence. 
Öd’ und leer das Meer. 
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, 
Had a bad cold, nevertheless 
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,  45
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, 
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, 
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) 
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, 
The lady of situations.  50
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, 
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card, 
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, 
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find 
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.  55
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. 
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, 
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: 
One must be so careful these days. 
Unreal City,  60
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, 
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, 
I had not thought death had undone so many. 
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, 
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.  65
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, 
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours 
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. 
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying “Stetson! 
You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!  70
That corpse you planted last year in your garden, 
Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? 
Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? 
Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men, 
Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!  75
You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!” 

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass 
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines 
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out  80
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing) 
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra 
Reflecting light upon the table as 
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, 
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;  85
In vials of ivory and coloured glass 
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, 
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused 
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air 
That freshened from the window, these ascended  90
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, 
Flung their smoke into the laquearia, 
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling. 
Huge sea-wood fed with copper 
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,  95
In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam. 
Above the antique mantel was displayed 
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene 
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king 
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale 100
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice 
And still she cried, and still the world pursues, 
“Jug Jug” to dirty ears. 
And other withered stumps of time 
Were told upon the walls; staring forms 105
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. 
Footsteps shuffled on the stair, 
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair 
Spread out in fiery points 
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still. 110
“My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me. 
Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak. 
What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? 
I never know what you are thinking. Think.” 
I think we are in rats’ alley 115
Where the dead men lost their bones. 
“What is that noise?” 
                      The wind under the door. 
“What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?” 
                      Nothing again nothing. 120
You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember 
        I remember 
                Those are pearls that were his eyes. 125
“Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?” 
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag— 
It’s so elegant 
So intelligent 130
“What shall I do now? What shall I do? 
I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street 
With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow? 
What shall we ever do?” 
                          The hot water at ten. 135
And if it rains, a closed car at four. 
And we shall play a game of chess, 
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door. 
When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said, 
I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself, 140
Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart. 
He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you 
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there. 
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, 145
He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you. 
And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert, 
He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time, 
And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said. 
Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said. 150
Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look. 
If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said, 
Others can pick and choose if you can’t. 
But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling. 155
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique. 
(And her only thirty-one.) 
I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face, 
It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said. 
(She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.) 160
The chemist said it would be alright, but I’ve never been the same. 
You are a proper fool, I said. 
Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said, 
What you get married for if you don’t want children? 
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, 
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot— 
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. 170
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. 
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night. 

The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind 
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. 175
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. 
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, 
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends 
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. 
And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; 180
Departed, have left no addresses. 
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept… 
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, 
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long. 
But at my back in a cold blast I hear 185
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear. 
A rat crept softly through the vegetation 
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank 
While I was fishing in the dull canal 
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse. 190
Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck 
And on the king my father’s death before him. 
White bodies naked on the low damp ground 
And bones cast in a little low dry garret, 
Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year. 195
But at my back from time to time I hear 
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring 
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. 
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter 
And on her daughter 200
They wash their feet in soda water 
Et, O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole! 
Twit twit twit 
Jug jug jug jug jug jug 
So rudely forc’d. 205
Unreal City 
Under the brown fog of a winter noon 
Mr Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant 
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants 210
C. i. f. London: documents at sight, 
Asked me in demotic French 
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel 
Followed by a week-end at the Metropole. 
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back 215
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits 
Like a taxi throbbing waiting, 
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, 
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see 
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives 220
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, 
The typist home at tea-time, clears her breakfast, lights 
Her stove, and lays out food in tins. 
Out of the window perilously spread 
Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays, 225
On the divan are piled (at night her bed) 
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. 
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs 
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest— 
I too awaited the expected guest. 230
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, 
A small house-agent’s clerk, with one bold stare, 
One of the low on whom assurance sits 
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire. 
The time is now propitious, as he guesses, 235
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired, 
Endeavours to engage her in caresses 
Which still are unreproved, if undesired. 
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; 
Exploring hands encounter no defence; 240
His vanity requires no response, 
And makes a welcome of indifference. 
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all 
Enacted on this same divan or bed; 
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall 245
And walked among the lowest of the dead.) 
Bestows one final patronizing kiss, 
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit… 
She turns and looks a moment in the glass, 
Hardly aware of her departed lover; 250
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: 
“Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.” 
When lovely woman stoops to folly and 
Paces about her room again, alone, 
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, 255
And puts a record on the gramophone. 
“This music crept by me upon the waters” 
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street. 
O City City, I can sometimes hear 
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, 260
The pleasant whining of a mandoline 
And a clatter and a chatter from within 
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls 
Of Magnus Martyr hold 
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold. 265
The river sweats 
Oil and tar 
The barges drift 
With the turning tide 
Red sails 270
To leeward, swing on the heavy spar. 
The barges wash 
Drifting logs 
Down Greenwich reach 275
Past the Isle of Dogs. 
            Weialala leia 
            Wallala leialala 
Elizabeth and Leicester 
Beating oars 280
The stern was formed 
A gilded shell 
Red and gold 
The brisk swell 
Rippled both shores 285
South-west wind 
Carried down stream 
The peal of bells 
White towers 
            Weialala leia 290
            Wallala leialala 
“Trams and dusty trees. 
Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew 
Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees 
Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.“ 295
“My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart 
Under my feet. After the event 
He wept. He promised ‘a new start.’ 
I made no comment. What should I resent?” 
“On Margate Sands. 300
I can connect 
Nothing with nothing. 
The broken finger-nails of dirty hands. 
My people humble people who expect 
Nothing.” 305
      la la 
To Carthage then I came 
Burning burning burning burning 
O Lord Thou pluckest me out 
O Lord Thou pluckest 310

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swell 
And the profit and loss. 
                          A current under sea 315
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell 
He passed the stages of his age and youth 
Entering the whirlpool. 
                          Gentile or Jew 
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, 320
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you. 

After the torch-light red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens 
After the agony in stony places 
The shouting and the crying 325
Prison and place and reverberation 
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains 
He who was living is now dead 
We who were living are now dying 
With a little patience 330
Here is no water but only rock 
Rock and no water and the sandy road 
The road winding above among the mountains 
Which are mountains of rock without water 
If there were water we should stop and drink 335
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think 
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand 
If there were only water amongst the rock 
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit 
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit 340
There is not even silence in the mountains 
But dry sterile thunder without rain 
There is not even solitude in the mountains 
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl 
From doors of mud-cracked houses
                                If there were water
And no rock 
If there were rock 
And also water 
And water 
A spring 350
A pool among the rock 
If there were the sound of water only 
Not the cicada 
And dry grass singing 
But sound of water over a rock 355
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees 
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop 
But there is no water 
Who is the third who walks always beside you? 
When I count, there are only you and I together 360
But when I look ahead up the white road 
There is always another one walking beside you 
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded 
I do not know whether a man or a woman 
—But who is that on the other side of you? 365
What is that sound high in the air 
Murmur of maternal lamentation 
Who are those hooded hordes swarming 
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth 
Ringed by the flat horizon only 370
What is the city over the mountains 
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air 
Falling towers 
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria 
Vienna London 375
A woman drew her long black hair out tight 
And fiddled whisper music on those strings 
And bats with baby faces in the violet light 
Whistled, and beat their wings 380
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall 
And upside down in air were towers 
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours 
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. 
In this decayed hole among the mountains 385
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing 
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel 
There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home. 
It has no windows, and the door swings, 
Dry bones can harm no one. 390
Only a cock stood on the roof-tree 
Co co rico co co rico 
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust 
Bringing rain 
Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves 395
Waited for rain, while the black clouds 
Gathered far distant, over Himavant. 
The jungle crouched, humped in silence. 
Then spoke the thunder 
DA 400
Datta: what have we given? 
My friend, blood shaking my heart 
The awful daring of a moment’s surrender 
Which an age of prudence can never retract 
By this, and this only, we have existed 405
Which is not to be found in our obituaries 
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider 
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor 
In our empty rooms 
DA 410
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key 
Turn in the door once and turn once only 
We think of the key, each in his prison 
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison 
Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours 415
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus 
Damyata: The boat responded 
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar 
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded 420
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient 
To controlling hands 
                      I sat upon the shore 
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me 
Shall I at least set my lands in order? 425
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down 
Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina 
Quando fiam ceu chelidon—O swallow swallow 
Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie 
These fragments I have shored against my ruins 430
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe. 
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. 
      Shantih    shantih    shantih