wjsullivan.net

Overloading the Machine

Postcard (Boulder to Boston)

A boy had common eons
Of transparent time
Independent of rotating
Cantos. It was a hot, black
Blustery night. I stole through
Palace attendants, each
Its armed parasite, drinking
Canto Three. Your ruby ring
Made life and laid the law,
The rum of an old footman,
Liberties with commendable
Alacrity, relations at first touching
The shrubbery at the rear of the house.

I thought music. Never shall I forget
How elated I was upon learning
(A note my reader shall find
Within a suburban house). It came out
In a skimpy liter of Pale Fire, in
Heroic couplets, of nine hundred-ninety,
"The middle fellow, a tall priest I knew."

Many enraged psychiatrists are inciting a weary butcher. The butcher is weary and tired because he has cut meat and steak and lamb for hours and weeks. He does not desire to chant about anything with raving psychiatrists, but he sings about his gingivectomist, he dreams about a single cosmologist, he thinks about his dog. The dog is named Herbert.

-- Racter, "The Policeman's Beard is Half-Constructed"

This page was last modified on 2011 December 20. "Postcard (Boulder to Boston)" by John Sullivan is Copyright ©2003 - 2011, and licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.