47 2 1
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My love was photovoltaic, not Elizabethan.
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144220
|
the unhealthiness of obsession and control until the lines burn bright
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2937169
|
The first punch sent me flying into a Christmas tree. The second put me on the floor on my hands and knees, blood dripping from my nose.
|
1655138
|
Heaven’s a blast! It’s like a big summer camp in space...We are the weavers of the tie-dyed sky.
|
102210
|
Talking to Shakespeare by the riverside,
I am saddened by my lust for women,
how my eyes fixate on the spit that passes from top to bottom lip as they talk to me.
|
2500
|
I eat my heart, I eat my heart, I eat my heart; share with me my ruby bane.
Here, here, late kiss in dark air; late last grasp of heaven’s black and silent mane.
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59742
|
Madison was not stupid, just uncultured. She knew nothing of England, but decided to travel from New York to Warwickshire to see Shakespeare's grave. She hoped to capture some sort of magic from seeing the playwright's tomb...
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111600
|
We dig up conscience-tunnels, pluck the play-flower of present choice for fun, run aground, past this dimly lit, though not to be underestimated, stage, and open door upon empty door, to nothing, for the lights are a pulse flickering in the perceptual per
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97611
|
1Paradise Lost is cast into the lake of fire. Satan tells John Milton to rewrite it in 140 characters or fewer.2Filippo Marinetti languishes in a dismal rural idyll. His hand, possessed, scrawls euphonic odes to the moon with a quill.3Henri Michaux floats through the…
|
102138
|
"...the connection between sex and the metaphor..."
|
112733
|
Much as the cockerel crows the break of day/ So, too, has our love similar herald,
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75421
|
When gratitude on lovers' lips rings false/ As flattery by courtly sycophants,/ Take care to well distinguish gold from dross/ So as to gild gladder remembrances.
|
82600
|
With porc’lain hand she writes thy thankless verse/ Like Proserpina, strapped to eb’ny throne,/ Eternally paying the six-month purse/ For hunger once soothed with but seeds alone.
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85511
|
Oh Triple-Crownéd who evades my sight,/ Guide me down proper crossroads in this life/ As you have promised to grant me your might/ And make of me eternity's fair wife.
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13901611
|
Poor souls. Likely they'll be poets.
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