Mervyn Peake Is A Finer Poet Than

There Is A Kind Of Laughter That Sickens The Soul. Laughter When It Is Out Of Control: When It Screams And Stamps Its Feet, And Sets The Bells Jangling In The Next Town. Laughter In All Its Ignorance And Cruelty. Laughter With The Seed Of Satan In It. It Tramples Upon Shrines; The Belly-roarer. It Roars, It Yells, It Is Delirious: And Yet It Is As Cold As Ice. It Has No Humor. It Is Naked Noise And Naked Malice.

I Am Clever Enough To Know That I Am Clever.

Noon, Ripe As Thunder And Silent As Thought, Had Fled Unfingered.

I Am Too Rich Already, For My Eyes Mint Gold, While My Heart Cries.

The Earth Swirls Down Through The Ominous Moons Of Preconsidered Generations.