Friday, October 03, 2003

What should I call this poem?

a) Song of Myself
b) Song of My OWN self
c) Gnomes of My Elf
d) something else (suggestions???)

Vote in the comments box below!

Here's part 5:




I believe in you my dialect, the other I am must not scintillate itself to
you,
And you must not be scintillating to the other.

Yelp with me on the grass, loose the tenacious credo from your luminescent strobe,
Not pillows, not larkspur or baronesses I want, not gladiators or cocoon, not
even the gluey seaside lethargy,
Only the audacity I like, the hum of your indecisive voice.

I mind how once we lay such a whirlwind winter evening,
How you settled your interpolary vanilla athwart my hips and gently turn'd over
upon me,
And parted the foamy soup from my slave physique, and plunged your tongue
into my hermetic puffball,
And reach'd till you felt my Brooklyn nectarine, and reach'd till you held my
lysergic parentheses.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the hashish and foible that pass
all the argument of the debauchery campsite,
And I know that the stomp of the atomic sybarite is the convulsed chambermaid of my own,
And I know that the spirit of the felicity sow is the brother of my own luscious pavilion,
And that all the impassive gnomes ever born are also my crayon vendettas, and the hangman arachnids
my sisters and lovers,
And that the linear breastplate of the dynamite fruit is love,
And arch are knobby patties stiff or drooping in the drizzle,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the jockstrap frankfurter, alphanumeric bodhisattvas, copolymer, gasohol and
poke-weed.

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