Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
#playingdoctor
i must give you a full physical exam to fully grasp my prognosis and plan of treatment for you... dont be afraid i feel confident, no need to debate i can satisfy and gratify your pre-dic-ament in the richest succulent as a specialist, to some degree my healing hands work expertly but to receive full and complete treatment you must partake my honey rather frequent for a better plan of action i require a full body transfusion a chemical mixture of center fuses a delicate blending of our juices this may require several procedures over time it provides many features healing properties of your most vital ***** however worth it, even if, it cost a fortune to this a can guarantee success but first you must fully undress i work with energy transference your help required for successful convergence of the best possible results between two consenting adults bartering is certainly a viable option for your long term medical condition providing equal services for each other helps maintain balance to one another
0
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 1:01 AM UTC
Doctor, Doctor give me the news
Black Rook In Rainy Weather On the stiff twig up there Hunches a wet black rook Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain. I do not expect a miracle Or an accident To set the sight on fire In my eye, nor seek Any more in the desultory weather some design, But let spotted leaves fall as they fall, Without ceremony, or portent. Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then -- Thus hallowing an interval Otherwise inconsequent By bestowing largesse, honor, One might say love. At any rate, I now walk Wary (for it could happen Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical, Yet politic; ignorant Of whatever angel may choose to flare Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook Ordering its black feathers can so shine As to seize my senses, haul My eyelids up, and grant A brief respite from fear Of total neutrality. With luck, Trekking stubborn through this season Of fatigue, I shall Patch together a content Of sorts. Miracles occur, If you care to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent. The Response Even while flashbulbs go out, every now and then, we all must gather our arms and legs in a heap of human kindling, to rap tap tap on the downstairs neighbors door- for a set of candles, perhaps a chance to go completely insane for one terse moment when the hyperbole of vowels just don't matter anymore. And speaking of the sordid state of griseous gull-like creatures. Ravenous ravens gnawing outside the window of the kitchen table. How boring life can become, for at the moment, when we are not biting our nails, playing dress up, or playing doctor- all tied up. Or maybe even burying our heads in the looks of rooks or with our noses brimming over with the tops of books. The tea we have set in the study awaits us, as we all have to drink our tea some time. Just don't leave the lights on baby. Who needs lamps at full lux at high noon any who? You, Mrs. Sylvia Plath Hughes? Maybe you ought to buy a book of stamps- at the nearest Hobby Lobby, pack a paper bag with an apple and a 'sammich', and list formally your complaints. We can't all waste our time narrating other people's lives in the third person.
0
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
Response to Sylvia Plath's: Black Rook in Rainy Weather
Black Rook In Rainy Weather On the stiff twig up there Hunches a wet black rook Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain. I do not expect a miracle Or an accident To set the sight on fire In my eye, nor seek Any more in the desultory weather some design, But let spotted leaves fall as they fall, Without ceremony, or portent. Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then -- Thus hallowing an interval Otherwise inconsequent By bestowing largesse, honor, One might say love. At any rate, I now walk Wary (for it could happen Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical, Yet politic; ignorant Of whatever angel may choose to flare Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook Ordering its black feathers can so shine As to seize my senses, haul My eyelids up, and grant A brief respite from fear Of total neutrality. With luck, Trekking stubborn through this season Of fatigue, I shall Patch together a content Of sorts. Miracles occur, If you care to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent. The Response Even while flashbulbs go out, every now and then, we all must gather our arms and legs in a heap of human kindling, to rap tap tap on the downstairs neighbors door- for a set of candles, perhaps a chance to go completely insane for one terse moment when the hyperbole of vowels just don't matter anymore. And speaking of the sordid state of griseous gull-like creatures. Ravenous ravens gnawing outside the window of the kitchen table. How boring life can become, for at the moment, when we are not biting our nails, playing dress up, or playing doctor- all tied up. Or maybe even burying our heads in the looks of rooks or with our noses brimming over with the tops of books. The tea we have set in the study awaits us, as we all have to drink our tea some time. Just don't leave the lights on baby. Who needs lamps at full lux at high noon any who? You, Mrs. Sylvia Plath Hughes? Maybe you ought to buy a book of stamps- at the nearest Hobby Lobby, pack a paper bag with an apple and a 'sammich', and list formally your complaints. We can't all waste our time narrating other people's lives in the third person.
Continue reading...
47