The sun has yet to arch above the housetops. Perhaps I live on a gray street in Corinth where cowslip flourishes and cowbirds twitter. Or perhaps I have been meddling in the dictionary again, meddlesome-lexicographer that I am. Madhatter me, I imagine a world never to my liking just the same. Meathawker's apron, strings pulled cinching; labiumice biting through windowsills, the gloomy-glomming bow-bowing. In vine-verities, transubstantiate the clotting-glottis with tallow-white biscuits and deepest pomegranate-red watereddownwines: in glottis-veritas. Quixote’s mandrill’s not so funny after all. This, so he fears, is all he has left to look forward backwards to, silly little crones’headless fool.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
About Me
- Stephen Rowntree
- "Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz
No comments:
Post a Comment