Ted Berrigan Surveys Season Five of 'Mad Men' And It Is Good Part 2

Ted Berrigan Surveys Season Five of ‘Mad Men’ And It Is Good Part 2

5x04 Mystery Date

Future defined as body pinioned by event to unblinking space.

He hit me he hit me he hit me he hit me he hit me he hit me

he hit me (and it felt like a kiss). Could matter be that rot

building in our mouths? He hit me, but it didn’t hurt me.

He hit me (and it felt like math articulating itself

in words.) (Words are not enough. No words can

He hit me (and if math could explain it! But nobody

knows math here). Therefore we cannot look upon photos,

We cannot fit our bodies beneath couches or suck milk

from sugar-cubes. Or murder invisible friendships,

or vanish into a crowd of beautiful friendships. Ginsberg,

you’re ruining everything. Your body is becoming a radio,

again. A murderer exists! A human being comes into being with a knife!

This lance once belonged to my grandmother. This pill once belonged my wife.

5x05 Signal 30

This lance once belonged to my grandmother. This pill once belonged to my wife.

This shirt-sleeve rolled up on its own accord. This blood once belonged to me.

This girl belonged to the king a guy thought he was. This bridge

belonged to a powerful robot. This robot belonged to math.

This unappreciated second novel belonged to a detective.

This bruise belonged to an insignificant face.

This outline in the shape of a person belonged to a grimy little pimp

called ‘history.’ History roughs you up, insinuates that you might be gay.

This history belongs in the driver’s seat of a powerful car.

This dinner party is an unexpected delight. This human shape

belongs in a dark recess observing others from a small chair.

This human shape exists in the drivers seat of a powerful car.

This powerful car has no regrets and is literally living an animate dream.

I throw up my spinach. I admire that car. I often take a spot of blood in my cream.

5x06 Far Away Places

I throw up my spinach. I admire that car. I often take a spot of blood in my cream

quarreling with wild animals, stirring out sugar,

quiet sex-acts in a public space. Remain connected, but made strange by,

poetry through the mediation of a Martian. Staring out, looks strange from me.

Meanwhile, Martians driving to Denny’s to rekindle

a material blaze, speaking Latin. I hate it when we fight.

Both mussed by someone who was rude to me in 2007, someone who was rude

to me in 1957, someone who will be rude to me in 1967.

Meanwhile, all Martians standing around in a parking lot, exiting

bodies, understanding baseball, actually working.

Love can be a spot on a wall that you stare at from a planet.

Love can spit out its food and flee, love can move a hand over you.

Mars, I was rude to you, I’m a brute, it’s a disease.

I’m starving to death outside your door. I’m water as becoming-freeze.