Do not go gentle into that deep sleep. At least kick the anesthesiologist in the balls when you're back in the chair. You know, like it was a mistake.
THE UNUSED GOOSE[Any reading of the Kypria shows how it prepares for events in THE ILIAD in order to refer back to them, such as the kitting out of Achilles with Briseis and Agamemnon with Chryseis. (Bethe, Eric, HOMER: DICHTUNG SAGE II: ODYSEE, KYKLOS, ZEITBESTIMMUNG, 1922)]1.Street drunks, the toothless, crippled And blind, and their adolescent Acolytes, slackers united, suckers For oblique jokes and sly, cowardly wisdom, Gathered in unwashed, uncombed droves To hear their sightless leader tickle the gusle, A skeletal cello or broomstick with a string Culled from a stallion’s intestines, Sometimes the hair of a mare, stroked with a bowBent to shoot arrows, wailing, feigning2.Magisterial sincerity, on the topicOf Achilles’ rage, while embeddedIn all this like a yellow topazIn quartz was the captive woman Briseis, A plundered widow and a grass one, slave Princess and Trojan blonde who smelled So strongly of fresh bread Achilles Kept her nine years as a foot warmer,But slept for sex with Patroclus,And as Agamemnon said, 3.“It was a mistake. I never touched her.Here, take her back!” a rejected goose,An unused shuttle in the loom of destiny. And the toothless bared their gums, The drunkards blinked, the street kids, cripplesAnd the blind smiling with their nosesIn the air to hear better, to sniff,And as if sensing the whole scopeOf the woman’s discontent–-a big girl,Horsey, her true name Hippodameia,4.Briseis her patronym–-which they’d knowExactly how to end, and bring peaceBetween the nations and the men,Slapped their filthy handsOn their bony thighs, roaringAnd suddenly sighing as their masterMade his gusle tremble, whineAn inarticulate truth, which would Conclude with an inhuman cry.
Done and done, Whimsy! No, if I am to be honest, I believe I actually stroked his face when I awoke to thank him. Oh, Anonymous, you mock me in my infirmity. Toothless and crippled! It's true, I haven't been able to feel my left hand for a full 24 hours now.
THE KITTEN’S CABOODLEYou mistake my hope that mentionOf those antique A-type captains “Kitting themselves out”With captive maidens, Or the bitter absurdityOf the subway crowd Solving the plight of Briseis caught Between an indifferent rockAnd an aloof hard placeWould help uncurl your claws As readily as a kick to the ballsOf that sad man from AfghanistanAdministering your poppies. Mockery is a lasso which falls On a rose without horns,A cow without thorns,Empty as zero, empty as destiny’sStolen poetry. My dear,If it suits you to blame, I am purple with shame.
Why, do I have claws? If so, consider them uncurled already. My spirit kitten is highly catnipped these days, after all. She could not swipe if she wanted to.
WHO GOES WITH ANONYMOUSI glued an amethyst crystal Into the fork of a plum tree,Having groomed it to look like poodleFor all of the good it has done me.So no more turn aside and broodOn who will pierce your tapestry.Meteors wander and fall in the woodRuled by the gods of anonymity. And the purple rock of crueltyStays lodged in a barren tree, a dog With three heads at a misted dock, A quotidian anomaly.
You mindreader! How did you know that my next interpretation would involve plums?
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