A poem for Sterne Upps

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.

O Sterne

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”.

O Sterne

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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