Albert Scorn awoke calliope in the rigging of his bed linens, his eyes a mirror image of blackness and tar. The night had been troubling, fretful, worrisome, and syphilitic. He had read about men, who through intemperance and bad judgment, had been visited with gonorrhoea, blistered with lesions and soars, they’re mouths flapping like sailcloth, webbed with spittle and spume. He awoke again; this time with eyes closed, and began the day thinking thoughts untoward, from front to back, lacking in proper grammar, syntax and reason, a litter of misspellings and jumpstarts, calliope slumming in the rigging of his bed sheets.
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About Me
- Stephen Rowntree
- "Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz
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