The Fourth World (Snapshot one) I am the last Romantic of the Fourth World , but I am not a metaphor machine with spider cracks in my speech, my mind is like a hospital room at night when the lame boy in torn clothes screams on the cold pavement.My heart writhes in pain when in the floating rib a lie loudly proclaims total literacy of the nation. I bear the terrible convulsions and hammer my pains Unspeakable unscrubbed. My private wishes divide The hollow , half doors which Rembrandt’s females closed I feel the suffocation like the stalactite blind fish drinking Water not wine. My still life hugs the elbow joint with Rosy cheeks in the blackfly cockpit. Flora, lullaby and I wrote about red, red roses and Oleanders, lost now I am the last Romantic of the Fourth World .
Posted on: Sun, 07 Sep 2014 07:37:55 +0000
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