A Bad Place Full Of Bad Jerks
A Bad Place Full Of Bad Jerks
Illustration for article titled Excerpt of Song of Myself, 19th Edition

I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shan't assume,

for my every atom belonging to me now ejected.

I loafe with measured vigor,

I hunch forth and loafe at my ease of mine gentle beatings upon the grass.


My peen, my every molecule of this shaft of joy, form'd, tickled,


Born near of parents born here from parents the same, and even more before,

despite that I am unknown of more communal ecstasies of those before my own stroking.


I, now thirty-seven years old, in perfect tilt, begin,

Hoping to cease not till death.

My creeds and methods reliant,

Retiring my own pleasures after these passing moments, my spank bank never forgotten;

I gently lay myself into the creek.

I harbor seed for the basket of nature, the ebb and flow of glory,

a babbling creek rising harmoniously with my furious cranking.


Houses and bedrooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are

filled with oils,

I breathe the fragrance myself as I search for lubrication ,

This distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

Aromas bring forth more distinct pleasures,

the sight of deer in the valley, a sunset

the soft touch of oiled velvet stockings on my member.

It is for my own self forever, I am in love with it,

I will go to the riverbank by the wood and become undisguised

and naked,

I am mad to be in contact with my own jewels,

with the frenzied pant of my breath.

Echoes, crickets, buzz'd whispers, love-root, manga, silk-thread,

crotch with sturdy man-vine,

My inhalation and exhalation, the beating of my heart, the

the beating of my left hand,

The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the water below, the ants clicking,


and oh my, that shall burn later.

The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the

eddies of the wind,

A few light pats, a few wipes of sheets, sheets of paper,

an earlier edition of Leaves of Grass.

At last! Cleaned free of my gratifying sortie,

The delight alone rushes along the hillside,

The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising

my hog once for the deed.

Have you reckon'd a thousand pleasure sessions much?

Have you reckoned the beating being issued across the breadth of the earth?

I have.

Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?

Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the

origin of all poems,

You shall possess the good of your own fine meat-hammer.

You shall no longer take things firsthand, but in your second as well,

or perhaps find

the softest mud-burrow of appropriate circumference.


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