Walmart Has Baked Hot Cheetos

Ted Hughes. Anecdote for the night








There once was a man
He got out of bed that did not bed
pulled on clothes that do not wear
(Millions of years of whistling in his ears)
put on shoes that do not
shoes neatly tied up the laces - and dragged tighter
To get on the floor that does not completely
down the stairs that did not
stairs past the painting that was not the picture
to pause to remember and forget
night dreams that are not dreams

And there was a cloud, primitive, a prophet;
And the rain, his secret writing, cuneiform tablets at
sun;
And there was light, with its pompous twaddle;
were birch, persistent, bothersome.
And the wind reproach for reproach.
the table, he closed his eyes Bowls palms as if in gratitude


Avoiding reflection in the mirror
hurry to read news that is not news
(Millions of years spinning in his stomach)
He joined the cycle of life
but stopped reading feeling
weight of his hand in the hand that does not hand
And he did not know what to do to start
to live that day is not day

A Brighton was a picture
British Museum was a picture
warship was a picture of Flamborough
drumming of ice in a glass
Stretched mouths with laughter
that does not laugh
That's all that's left the picture

The book
Under
monsoon rains in the devastated mountain hut

How many years before his body was pulled off the leopard.



Ted Hughes. Bedtime Anecdote


There was a man
Who got up from a bed that was no bed
Who pulled on his clothes that were no clothes
(A million years whistling in his ear)
And he pulled on shoes that were no shoes
Carefully jerking the laces tight – and tighter
To walk over floors that were no floor
Down stairs that were no stairs
Past pictures that were no pictures
To pause
To remember and forget the night's dreams that were no dreams

And there was the cloud, primeval, the prophet;
There was the rain, its secret writing, the water-kernel
Of the tables of the sun;
And there was the light with its loose rant;
There were the birch trees, insisting and urging.
And the wind, reproach upon reproach.
At the table he cupped his eyes in his hands
As if to say grace

Avoiding his reflection in the mirror
Huddled to read news that was no news
(A million years revolving on his stomach)
He entered the circulation of his life
But stopped reading feeling the weight of his hand
In the hand that was no hand
And he did not know what to do or where to begin
To live the day that was no day

And Brighton was a picture
The British Museum was a picture
The battleship off Flamborough was a picture
And the drum-music the ice in the glass the mouths
Stretched open in laughter
That was no laughter
Were what was left of a picture

In a book
Under a monsoon downpour
In a ruinous mountain hut

From which years ago his body was lifted by a leopard.