Arse Poetica!
What a curious bug that crawls,
posted by Duck @ 10:12 AM
2 Comments
Several years ago -three to be exact- I volunteered to participate in a psychological experiment. I was to undergo various tests that would assess my cognitive functions. Before the actual tests, however, they had to examine my blood to see that I fit the bill, in terms of a normal and healthy person. It was then that they found that my blood's blood, or Spea, was dying. The well groomed, suit clad, business minded individuals dwelling inside my circulatory vessels were unaware of their being part of a complex, multi-cellular organism. Their universe was a human and their human was irresponsible. The case was brought in front of the Supreme Court. The doctor's daughter, who had fallen in love with me, had no choice but to banish any thoughts of us and move on. She still loves me but has a practical side that I cannot bring myself to resent. I was told that the French/German poet, Croixan Sawnt was my only hope if i were to escape but i have been unable to contact him. I have found out only recently that ever since he lost his leg in the famed 'War of the Arachnids', Sawnt has gone into hiding. Neither of his daughters has heard from him in five years.
2 Comments:
this is a hidden love poem. it has been hidden in the comments. this way no one will find it...but i will have it here, saved. you may laugh:
Sometimes you are a swimming pool
Or the softness of a valley,
A tiny boat caught in a storm;
Sometimes, a Roman galley.
A tree that's rooted deep and firm,
So none can see you whole.
If they would follow just one root,
They'd end up in my soul.
A Fanta bottle's lovely curves
Or waves that shape the sea.
Wind that flows, wherever it goes,
Uncaught and always free.
A first edition without a copy.
(The rarest type of broad!)
A manuscript that was never writ,
The unpublished work of God.
Both hit home. And sometimes its just the right mix of the right mood and the right words with the right flow. and sometimes its all so wrong. and yea these fleeting fixation is our ambition and our disease.
May the saga of the lost mad soldier and his conniving cattle of a wife have a happy ending.
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home