These'll do - Empson's "Aubade" (excerpt):

But as to risings, I can tell you why.
It is on contradiction that they grow.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
Up was the heartening and the strong reply.
The heart of standing is we cannot fly.

... and his "Let it go":

It is this deep blankness is the real thing strange.
The more things happen to you the more you can't
Tell or remember even what they were.

The contradictions cover such a range.
The talk would talk and go so far aslant.
You don't want madhouse and the whole thing there.

(I feel better already!)

Hey Travis!

Sometimes a hangover’s (purposeful?) disorientation of the senses makes me feel as though everything is some sort of poem. The look of the bedroom walls in the morning. The weather. The trees. The deafening traffic. The warped angle of the world before lots of coffee. A hangover might be the closest translation yet achieved of any Tzara poem. Which is to say it’s the physical, bodily manifestation of metal incongruity—the metaphysical made physical (that is if one believes in that sort of stuff anymore). Or maybe just Olivia Newton-John roller-skating around one’s braincase. That’s sure to leave lines somewhere.