#hamlet - Hello Poetry

They’re making love in the next room, putting away any fires to be had, and bumming cigarettes with melody. I’m getting tired of science and art, which retrieves that which is hidden inside the heart; holy joys with barren leaves on a branch or a tree that’s stood since I was a child. Mother has the face of a goat, Father a lion, and I sit like Prince Hamlet on a piece of a wooden coffin with Ophelia bleeding through her nose, nobody knows, and Uncle is drinking himself to death in the garage blaring Bob Dylan. I buy a boat and bring it out onto an ocean ten thousand years old, ten thousand miles from everything, from paradise, from the fold, from ten thousand spiritual Roman soldiers with their wooden spears, and you whisper in your bedroom voice, honey honey honey. There’s a sting going through your head, constant, pulsing, stabbing, you’re enthralled by the woods decay, the judge of Israel, whereof you become soon aware of hell within. This is, this is not, the covenants, the constituents, the impetuous bleating of the eyes of day with silk golden hair flowing down, hands in pockets like Bette Davis, face like Marilyn, found dead naked like Marilyn, my photo of her ends up on the front page of an ultimately blank newspaper. Great land by the sea is all over and done with the light and tempts the veins of millions, angry millions, stupid millions, ***** millions, the sickness of one is the sickness of many and of myself, an angry, stupid, ***** self. Don’t tell me what I already know, Hamlet sees and sits back next to Ophelia, she’s crying, he’s sorry, he hugs her, giving her love, showing her love.

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Mar 14

Mar 14, 2026 at 4:53 PM UTC

max-william-steele

Prince Hamelot

They’re making love in the next room, putting away any fires to be had, and bumming cigarettes with melody. I’m getting tired of science and art, which retrieves that which is hidden inside the heart; holy joys with barren leaves on a branch or a tree that’s stood since I was a child. Mother has the face of a goat, Father a lion, and I sit like Prince Hamlet on a piece of a wooden coffin with Ophelia bleeding through her nose, nobody knows, and Uncle is drinking himself to death in the garage blaring Bob Dylan. I buy a boat and bring it out onto an ocean ten thousand years old, ten thousand miles from everything, from paradise, from the fold, from ten thousand spiritual Roman soldiers with their wooden spears, and you whisper in your bedroom voice, honey honey honey. There’s a sting going through your head, constant, pulsing, stabbing, you’re enthralled by the woods decay, the judge of Israel, whereof you become soon aware of hell within. This is, this is not, the covenants, the constituents, the impetuous bleating of the eyes of day with silk golden hair flowing down, hands in pockets like Bette Davis, face like Marilyn, found dead naked like Marilyn, my photo of her ends up on the front page of an ultimately blank newspaper. Great land by the sea is all over and done with the light and tempts the veins of millions, angry millions, stupid millions, ***** millions, the sickness of one is the sickness of many and of myself, an angry, stupid, ***** self. Don’t tell me what I already know, Hamlet sees and sits back next to Ophelia, she’s crying, he’s sorry, he hugs her, giving her love, showing her love.