Oh, where is your inflammatory writ? Your text that would incite a light, Be lit? Our music deserving devotion unswerving — Cry Do I deserve her? with unflagging fervor. (Well, no we do not, if we cannot get over it) But whats it mean when suddenly were spent? Tell me true! Ambition came & reared its head, & went far from you! Even mollusks have weddings, though solemn & leaden but you dirge for the dead, & take no jam on your bread — just a supper of salt & a waltz through your empty bed. & all at once it came to me, & I wrote him hunched till four-thirty But that vestal light, it burns out with the night in spite of all the time that we spend on it: on one bedraggled ghost of a sonnet! While outside, the wild boars root without bending a bough underfoot — O it breaks my heart; I dont know how they dot. So dont ask me! & as for my inflammatory writ? Well, I wrote it & I was not inflamed one bit. Advice from the master derailed that disaster; He said Hand that pen over to me, poetaster! While across the great plains, keening lovely & awful, ululate the lost Great American Novels — An unlawful lot, left to stutter & freeze, floodlit. (But at least they didnt run, to their undying credit.) https://youtube/watch?v=DXt7zYsR9eY
Posted on: Sun, 24 Aug 2014 01:51:15 +0000
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