Where do all these corpses get off using my jaws to speak?
A change in season, and, O the mists and mellow fruitfulness!
A sullen mood and now you know how much Yo ya no soy yo.
And, Heaven help me, a woman! Better talk with a mouth full of spiders and marking with crosses of fire.
Stay dead, the Dead! Rot and crumble and just be dirt! (Or, reproductive, do these sentences themselves have life? -- Memetic insects crawling through the caverns in my brain.)
I'd like to squash them. But you know I've already planned it: A coming season's nostalgia, filled to the brim with bleakest winds and long-exhausted flowers.
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1 comment:
You are channelling a woman poet? I hope it wasn't Emily Dickenson.
* shudder *
ps. I don't believe in that channelling B.S. but I do believe one can be haunted.
Yes there's a difference.
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