rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Displeased by the Sun

It was too hot to be going out, but I went shopping anyway. After that I sort of wilted, and haven't done much for the last couple of hours. It's pleasant enough outside now, but it will take half the night before the house is a comfortable place to be. That's why I'm not going to sit here and write. It would be nothing but complaints anyway. Swelter, swelter.




Sunday Verse



Orpheus in Hell


by Jack Spicer


When he first brought his music into hell
He was absurdly confident. Even over the noise of the
shapeless fires
And the jukebox groaning of the damned
Some of them would hear him. In the upper world
He had forced the stones to listen.
It wasn't quite the same. And the people he remembered
Weren't quite the same either. He began looking at faces
Wondering if all of hell were without music.
He tried an old song but pain
Was screaming on the jukebox and the bright fire
Was pelting away the faces and he heard a voice saying,
"Orpheus!"
He was at the entrance again
And a little three-headed dog was barking at him.
Later he would remember all those dead voices
And call them Eurydice.

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