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this is not a line of words,
this is not just a line of words
this is a jumble of godless syntax
this is a multi-dimensional space in which a variety of writings, none of them original, bend and clash.(blend and cash? ed.)
let’s take that bag of snakes and straighten it.
i am john berryman,
punch drunk to the lips and hating henry
my words tumbling off that washington bridge into immortality,
going that way, the hemingway
(for sale: baby shoes, adulterated).
i am an american
no i am allen ginsberg
spitting syllables at the negro dawn, looking for an angry fix of my ink cartridge, which keeps on leaking ink
and you will never know how many arses i have fucked by looking at leaking ink
(maybe you haven’t fucked any arses.)
i am older than everyone right now.
i am ee cummings
eternal edward in his dead wife’s eyes, using less capitalism than bloody stealing stalin, lollll like a poorly typed note at your public swimming pool, no running, diving or screaming, doesn’t mention dreaming->
throw my letters into a hat and shake them about, and then see what i mean.
i am sad.
i am phillip larkin, penning poetry in the university library, no wonder he used so many good words he was surrounded by millions of them. no wonder he is studied in school he was in charge of the library.
i am french italian english spanish western eastern polynesian
i exist as an organism, i am composite, i am a metaphor for my writing and that’s about it.:-(
part 2
i love you
i take back all these words, and i am embarrassed.
part 3
i almost forgot,
i am sylvia plath,
head in the oven,
beauty
part 4
written :
EARTH has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
earth has not any thing to show more fair:
dull would he be of soul who could pass by
a sight so touching in its majesty:
this city now doth, like a garment, wear
the beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
open unto the fields, and to the sky;
all bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
never did sun more beautifully steep
in his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
ne'er saw i, never felt, a calm so deep!
the river glideth at his own sweet will:
dear god! the very houses seem asleep;
and all that mighty heart is lying still!
ad infinitum.