for John Keats
I didn't die unrequited.
I took a wife in August.
My wife was wearing silky white shoulders
holding out her boney arms held
my name close to her spine.
I knew that there was a warmth
wherein that carved out broken shell
I was melting in the silver sun.
In July she let me sing
a song to every single
gorgeous figure in granite
every star that was bestowed to us
in the Medi-terrain, fall to their
knees pointing their palms to
the North where the medieval
tricksters still dance on top of
Stonehenge and tell stories
And every turning ball is still
just floating around the sun.
She spake, the beauteous, she
my wife in August. Forgiving,
and for only six months was
she mine, and now she mourns.
My lovely white goddess, she
Gushing a luscious sob.
Painful veil of oblivion seals her eyes
She strives to search wherefore I am so sad,
melancholy numbs her limbs;
she sits upon the grass, moaning.
She burns up in the sun.
She, who once had wings.
Oh, Hyperion, you unfinished gem,
She still sobs
You went on for ages, and now
nothing is left.
Tickle your toes. . .
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across...
where are my garden gloves to weed out your evils? where are my rubber gloves to scrub off your stupid? where are my surgical gloves to cut ...