Sunday, April 21, 2013

I bet words wish they weren't true

"Presenceless souls, trapped
On thin anonymous discs of eroded wax,
Continuous shrieks spearing through
Marbleskin earshaped antennae
Of aesthetic-soaked pincushions,
Springfoot leapers, frozen in flight,
Clinging to shallow bowled spoons,
Twisting in desperately clawed caves
Holding pinkish moisture, dripped
By parched secret needle-sucking mouths
Brooding on stoned cliffs of tarnished arms."
Bob Kaufman, Solitudes Crowded with Loneliness, 1965

"If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori."
Wilfred Owen, 1917

 Grand Duke Dictionary Forger

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