11-23-2010, 03:56 PM
Too tired to read prose, and unwilling
to waste away before sitcoms,
I content myself with Stevie Smith,
her childish, sinister poems,
and old film clips of Truman Capote
discussing James with Groucho Marx,
as well as this verse I’m composing
right now. The latter, seemingly,
is my most eloquent delight,
the recording of an eve wasted
through hopeless, broken rhyme.
But is despair truly a crime?
I don’t know. I don’t know
very much anymore, if I ever did,
so now I wait for the furtive kiss
of the nailed down black coffin lid.
to waste away before sitcoms,
I content myself with Stevie Smith,
her childish, sinister poems,
and old film clips of Truman Capote
discussing James with Groucho Marx,
as well as this verse I’m composing
right now. The latter, seemingly,
is my most eloquent delight,
the recording of an eve wasted
through hopeless, broken rhyme.
But is despair truly a crime?
I don’t know. I don’t know
very much anymore, if I ever did,
so now I wait for the furtive kiss
of the nailed down black coffin lid.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe