03-21-2011, 11:19 AM
I am enamoured of the cesspool of humanity.
Harry Harlow and his rhesus monkeys
huddled inside their "pits of despair",
shivering on the "rape rack",
locked in wire cages like Jewish children
at the hands of Doctor Mengele.
But whereas the latter is now a monster,
Harlow and his research are "controversial".
Sylvia Plath praising her daddy's bones,
sealing herself inside his coffin
through the embrace of another man,
his ribs against hers, hand to hand
and crotch to crotch like teenagers
on the backseat. The rhythms of procreation designed
to imitate a coupling
that would still a libertine's heartbeat.
Anne Sexton probing her precious cunny
while baby sleeps on her shoulder,
the memories of youth drowning the poet
as inheritance rings the doorbell,
breathes against her spine, her skull,
bats in the attic forging their escape.
Chairs embedded with nails, chin rests
and head clamps which pop out the eyes,
denigrate lucidity like a statue crumbling
until the victim is barely conscious,
or at least enough to know the sky's blue,
that grass is green and people die.
I know, I know, I'm being morbid.
Cheer up, find a man, write about daffodils...
The green leather book my grandfather left
still sits on my shelf, barely molested,
the spine unburdened, a relieved mule,
the nature verse he so adored
reduced to a strand of tinsel.
Perhaps when I reach seventy-five
I'll lean back and study a vibrant greenhouse,
a lone cigar in my pocket,
my feet resting on a wood paneled porch,
as dinner is made and the sound of humming
emanates from the kitchen.
But as it is now I must trek through the dark,
a sentence in search of a full stop.
Harry Harlow and his rhesus monkeys
huddled inside their "pits of despair",
shivering on the "rape rack",
locked in wire cages like Jewish children
at the hands of Doctor Mengele.
But whereas the latter is now a monster,
Harlow and his research are "controversial".
Sylvia Plath praising her daddy's bones,
sealing herself inside his coffin
through the embrace of another man,
his ribs against hers, hand to hand
and crotch to crotch like teenagers
on the backseat. The rhythms of procreation designed
to imitate a coupling
that would still a libertine's heartbeat.
Anne Sexton probing her precious cunny
while baby sleeps on her shoulder,
the memories of youth drowning the poet
as inheritance rings the doorbell,
breathes against her spine, her skull,
bats in the attic forging their escape.
Chairs embedded with nails, chin rests
and head clamps which pop out the eyes,
denigrate lucidity like a statue crumbling
until the victim is barely conscious,
or at least enough to know the sky's blue,
that grass is green and people die.
I know, I know, I'm being morbid.
Cheer up, find a man, write about daffodils...
The green leather book my grandfather left
still sits on my shelf, barely molested,
the spine unburdened, a relieved mule,
the nature verse he so adored
reduced to a strand of tinsel.
Perhaps when I reach seventy-five
I'll lean back and study a vibrant greenhouse,
a lone cigar in my pocket,
my feet resting on a wood paneled porch,
as dinner is made and the sound of humming
emanates from the kitchen.
But as it is now I must trek through the dark,
a sentence in search of a full stop.
You've put a spring in my step for the day and we didn't even have to make love
I was referring to Wordsworth with those daffodils, as the green leather book I mentioned is all his work, but I guess it could be about Herrick too.