Wordsworth bubbled in my cellophanate bath water
yesterday, at the candled hour.
whilst horse tails whinnied from Joshua Bell—
Tchaikovsky in brood, 1878.
Oh, but if I had thought to Bogart the whole affair, well,
I'd be a modern Michelangelo, a downright da Vinci—
a Dostoyevsky before the dawn—
propped between the cold **** and the hot,
wet behind the ears.
Then I turn the note-the page-the scene:
Don't try this at home, they echo in the shackles of
celebrity. A drowning horse has sounded better
than their confession of our normality.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
Wordsworth bubbled in my cellophanate bath water
yesterday, at the candled hour.
whilst horse tails whinnied from Joshua Bell—
Tchaikovsky in brood, 1878.
Oh, but if I had thought to Bogart the whole affair, well,
I'd be a modern Michelangelo, a downright da Vinci—
a Dostoyevsky before the dawn—
propped between the cold **** and the hot,
wet behind the ears.
Then I turn the note-the page-the scene:
Don't try this at home, they echo in the shackles of
celebrity. A drowning horse has sounded better
than their confession of our normality.
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