My dear friend Sterne G Upps died today in his gothic Charlemagne-era hut in France. He died as he lived: Writing poems about himself, and why wouldn’t he? If there were a god, (which I think not), but if there were just an ounce of religion in the universe it would be directed towards Sterne. O Sterne! Why hous’t thu’t brittle hands of coldest winter, take you into ground.
Bellow is my poem dear and humble readers, farewell.
I look at Sterne
I look at Sterne’s poem on death
My eyes move very slowly, towards Sterne’s dead figure.
Then very slowly away, back towards Sterne’s poem on death.
Then very quickly, like a fox, back to Sterne’s sluggish eyes.
“Then Sterne lets out a sigh”, I thought as I dart back to Sterne’s poem on
Sterne’s lament, by which I mean “Surphac’s lament on Sterne lamenting his own death”.
Poet, writer, critic and Diderot fan.
You are vanished now like a scented breeze on a humid Mediterranean sunset.
Or the painters brush, when the painter loses it.
Sterne, you are like a long twirling pole made out of
cellophane, duct tape, ahesive, alimnium, soil, rock, obsidian, fake gold and
an elevator leading right up my heart-sphere.
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