Before the gas fades

Before the gas fades with a harsh last bubble,
And the hunt in the hatstand discovers no coppers,
Before the last fag and the shirt sleeves and slippers,
The century’s trap will have snapped round your middle,
Before the allotment is weeded and sown,
And the oakum is picked, and the spring trees have grown green,
And the state falls to bits,
And is fed to the cats,
Before civilization rises or rots,
(It’s a matter of guts,
Graft, poison, and bluff,
Sobstuff, mock reason,
The chameleon coats of the big bugs and shots,)
The jaws will have shut, and life be switched out.
Before the arrival of angel or devil,
Before evil or good, light or dark,
Before white or black, the right or left sock,
Before good or bad luck.

Man’s manmade sparetime lasts the four seasons,
Is empty in springtime, and no other time lessens
The bitter, the wicked, the longlying leisure,
Sleep punctured by waking, dreams
Broken by choking,
The hunger of living, the oven and gun
That turned on and lifted in anger
Make the hunger for living
When the purse is empty
And the belly is empty,
The harder to bear and the stronger.
The century’s trap will have closed for good
About you, flesh will perish, and blood
Run down the world’s gutters,
Before the world steadies, stops rocking, is steady,
Or rocks, swings and rocks, before the world totters.

Caught in the trap’s machinery, lights out,
With sightless eyes and hearts that do not beat,
You will not see the steadying or falling,
Under the heavy layers of the night
Not black or white or left or right.