• Poetry Snark
  • Sunday, December 10, 2006

    O Deary

    Friends, friends, onea & all, so long has it been & here am I, sunk in the dregs of another fine grenache, my wits quite shattered upon the rocky shoal of drunken logic, & yet I find within me the very fire that burned long ago, unvanquished after so long, preserved in a kind of fromaldehyde of sentiment & logic as a grey mass of brain in a small undergraduate biology fishtank, left for the rubber-gloved hands of inchoate lads & lasses who know no better than to feel in their febrile young fingers the glowing call center of the body electric, yes, yes, the body politic, friends, & who know no better than to judge it paramount when its conversation with the heart is something so much more divine! Yes, yes, like comparing a jarlsburg, say, to a fine cotswald indeed! Ah, but I digress, though feeble have I been, enfeebled, feeblized, enduring feeble-hood, the event of feebleness as dear Quine would have it (oh that rascal of radical indeterminacy! the devil itself!)! But all is well, dear friends, as I will further illuminate, though for the time being I am admittedly entirely inebriate. Dear me! Ah me, Ah my, what have I at my fingertips but drunken nubs!