10-11-2014, 03:30 AM
Teacher, “Alas children we've lost the rights to The Flea. Luckily, we've got this great work in the public Domain.”
The Winged Creature:
Within my eye, I spied a winged thing
and with a mild awe, I marked each wing.
While you, instead, would pinch the bloody sheets
And hold the creature in your meaty hand.
You, like a wanton god, would cause its end.
Perturbed, you’d take each pallid ligament
And mangle them between two dainty tips.
And, Oh. Thy nail was always colored red.
Whilst painting, with a polish, the semblance of your deed
You’d say, “What is that whine that bothers me.”
While I, somewhat restrained, would yield and speak,
“These cluttered cupboards always bring fruit flies.”
Yet, in each buzzing breath, I heard myself.
Its feelers hung like limpid moons as horns
Extended blindly, and what were all my words.
To her, I knew they were like reaching hands.
Like brooding shadows shading all my speech.
She held the thing and with a gentle force
Took, from its thorax, its jutting paper tools.
I’ve heard it said, that bulls are drawn to red,
And for a moment, when the buzzing ceased,
I gazed at the red bottle filled with paint.
Desirous rage conflicted in my breast.
She was a thing and she had crushed a thing.
I was a horrid creature, and she seemed
To be some horrid tyrant fiend.
Student, “That Sucked!”
Teacher, “Too Bad, we can’t afford those damn Norton Anthologies.”
Student (To himself): “Bastard…”
The Winged Creature:
Within my eye, I spied a winged thing
and with a mild awe, I marked each wing.
While you, instead, would pinch the bloody sheets
And hold the creature in your meaty hand.
You, like a wanton god, would cause its end.
Perturbed, you’d take each pallid ligament
And mangle them between two dainty tips.
And, Oh. Thy nail was always colored red.
Whilst painting, with a polish, the semblance of your deed
You’d say, “What is that whine that bothers me.”
While I, somewhat restrained, would yield and speak,
“These cluttered cupboards always bring fruit flies.”
Yet, in each buzzing breath, I heard myself.
Its feelers hung like limpid moons as horns
Extended blindly, and what were all my words.
To her, I knew they were like reaching hands.
Like brooding shadows shading all my speech.
She held the thing and with a gentle force
Took, from its thorax, its jutting paper tools.
I’ve heard it said, that bulls are drawn to red,
And for a moment, when the buzzing ceased,
I gazed at the red bottle filled with paint.
Desirous rage conflicted in my breast.
She was a thing and she had crushed a thing.
I was a horrid creature, and she seemed
To be some horrid tyrant fiend.
Student, “That Sucked!”
Teacher, “Too Bad, we can’t afford those damn Norton Anthologies.”
Student (To himself): “Bastard…”
