• Poetry Snark
  • Saturday, October 08, 2005

    O, Anacreon

    Pesky, yes, yes, the little trifles of man upon opening his mouth to speak, upon placing his fingertips upon the charcoal keys, yes, & so absurdly righteous, so rife with passing indignation & a particular breed of intransigence that he will one day surely come to regard as assanine & riddled with youthful folly. O, dear me, friends, but for a draught of cool vintage, yes, yes, so said Keats in a moment of subsuming despair. I think I'll away to madelaines & krumpets, yes, & the oolong which stirs in my blood some forgotten ode of yore. I'll away, friends, & find myself a shore for skipping stones.