Sunday, June 05, 2005

Do I, Too, Despise It?

Hopkins, Morris, Tennyson, John Berryman, you guys can play. You, too, Yeats. All the rest of you kids, fold it! Betjeman—Morrisey makes you, Heaney you're a squid, Atwood, Adrienne Rich—blargh, Hughes, late Ezra Pound, Benedikt, Alice Fulton, Hudgins, Haskins, Hugo, Jeffers, Eigner, Bukowski and everybody else, go make paper cranes in the corner. What? I get to pick the teams cause I'm good, that's why. Sure I can prove it.

[The soul of my brother if my brother were dead]

The soul of my brother if my brother were dead
Would ascend in a burning tree.
His flames-for-eyes and shining hands
Would climb eternity.

And before he rose on a branch of fire
My brother would lift his eyes.
And from heaven and all would shine such light
As would double my heart the size.

I should raise both hands and grasp the branches
Of time and climb to heaven.
Fall away, black earth, die down, stiff stones,
Let the blessing give and be given.

For my brother will bring the blessing down
And lend me the strength to suffer
In the painful boughs to eternity—
Ah, what if I have no brother?

Reading: Flowers In The Attic + VC Andrews
Listening: "Cannot Sleep Cannot Eat" + the prayers and tears of arthur digby sellers

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