| Winter Up |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|11:48 pm]
rejectomorph
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The sky has turned drizzly rather than properly rainy, but maybe the clouds will be more ambitious tomorrow. For now there is only a slick street with silver trails wherever light falls, as though giant snails had passed. Going outside is like opening the door of a refrigerator full of grass and decaying leaves, and where something is melting, drip, drip, drip. No foodz for a lolcat to eat in there.
Happy Solstice Monday.
Sunday Verse
suppose
by e.e. cummings
suppose
Life is an old man carrying flowers on his head.
young death sits in a cafe
smiling, a piece of money held between
his thumb and first finger
(i say "will he buy flowers" to you
and "Death is young
life wears velour trousers
life totters, life has a beard" i
say to you who are silent.—"Do you see
Life? he is there and here,
or that, or this
or nothing or an old man 3 thirds
asleep, on his head
flowers, always crying
to nobody something about les
roses les bluets
yes,
will He buy?
Les belle bottes—oh hear
, pas cheres")
and my love slowly answered I think so. But
I think I see someone else
there is a lady, whose name is Afterwards
she is sitting beside young death, is slender;
likes flowers.
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