Archivos de la categoría: Poesía

The Interrogation of God

Step forward: we hear That you are a good man. You cannot be bought, but the lightning Which strikes the house, also Cannot be bought You hold to what you said. But what did you say? You are honest, you say your opinion. Which opinion? You are brave. Against whom? You are wise. For whom?

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the pretty girl who rented rooms

down in New Orleans this young pretty girl showed me a room for rent and it was dark in there and we stood very close and as we stood there she said, “the room is $4.50 a week.” and I said, “I usually pay $3.50.” as we stood there in the dark I decided to

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Reporting from the Frontline of the Great Dictionary Disaster

Why has the English dictionary grown so thin? Why is it weeping between its covers? Because today is the day all words of foreign origin return to their native borders. Linguists are rioting in the streets. Crosswords lovers are on hunger strike. But words are voting with their feet and familiar objects across the British

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In Praise of Dreams

In Praise of Dreams In my dreams I paint like Vermeer van Delft. I speak fluent Greek and not only with the living. I drive a car which obeys me. I am talented, I write long, great poems. I hear voices no less than the major saints. You would be amazed at my virtuosity on

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No meio do caminho

No meio do caminho tinha uma pedra tinha uma pedra no meio do caminho tinha uma pedra no meio do caminho tinha uma pedra. Nunca me esquecerei desse acontecimento na vida de minhas retinas tão fatigadas. Nunca me esquecerei que no meio do caminho tinha uma pedra tinha uma pedra no meio do caminho no

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German Phenomenology Makes Me Want to Strip and Run through North London

Page seven – I’ve had enough of Being and Time and of clothing. Many streakers seek quieter locations and Marlborough Road’s unreasonably quiet tonight. If it were winter I’d be intellectual, but it’s Tuesday and I’d rather be outside, naked, than learned – rather lap the tarmac escarpment of Archway Roundabout wearing only a rucksack.

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The Sin

Francis Xavier Skinner committed a sin. It was a big sin, he thought, A whopper, An Everest of error, A mortaller, as the man said, Thinking of the price he’d have to pay when dead. Skinner said to himself, By this sin I have wounded an innocent God. I, Francis Xavier Skinner, have offended The

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Black Monday Lovesong

In love’s dances, in love’s dances One retreats and one advances. One grows warmer and one colder, One more hesitant, one bolder. One gives what the other needed Once, or will need, now unheeded. One is clenched, compact, ingrowing While the other’s melting, flowing. One is smiling and concealing While the other’s asking, kneeling. One

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Money and Morals

The invention Of weights and measures Makes robbery easier. Signing contracts, setting seals, Makes robbery more sure. Teaching love and duty Provides a fitting language With which to prove that robbery Is really for the general good. A poor man must swing For stealing a belt buckle But if a rich man steals a whole

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My mind to me a kingdom is

De Blog De Blog De Blog De Blog De Blog De Blog De Blog De Blog De Blog De Blog De Blog De Blog De Blog De Blog De Blog De Blog My Mind To Me a Kingdom Is My mind to me a kingdom is; Such perfect joy therein I find That it excels

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