And what new thrill does this one bring
With legs astride and eyes aglow;
How many praises can one sing
Of something someone cannot know?
Thursday, 20 January 2011
andwhatnewthrilldoesthisonebring
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arduousbrutecallousdexterityeaseforgetgrowhiveinventivejurykleptomaniacluxurymightnocturnalofferpricequarrelreasonsumtongueuglyviceweatherxyeszone
accidentalbelowcameodirectionepilepticfishgonehaywireimpatientjokerkitelorrymonogramnorpasturequillraspysighttelevisionumvixenwrigglexyawnzip
audacitybruntcarefuldangerendfrivolousgrandheapintensejewelkillerlaminatemoneynotoriousopalpiequiverraindriosturdytrivialundervarietywindedxyesterdayzilch
This just makes me ill your name is dripping from my pen
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As things are, and as fundamentally they must always be, poetry is not a career, but a mug's game. No honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: He may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.
T. S. Eliot