(no subject)
More English poetry because it eats my brain spending all day trying to figure out what it means.
Next week we start short stories - must be easier
pity this busy monster, manunkind,
not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and life safely beyond)
plays with the bigness of his littleness
--- electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange; lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
A world of made
is not a world of born --- pity poor flesh
and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence. We doctors know
a hopeless case if --- listen: there's a hell
of a good universe next door; let's go
Good gods this poem was hard to figure out. Half the words are made up and the grammar makes no sense (not that any poem follows the logic of good grammar).
But, makes you think about how we treat this world and each other, just using something up until it's all done and moving on to the next thing.
Next week we start short stories - must be easier
pity this busy monster, manunkind,
not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and life safely beyond)
plays with the bigness of his littleness
--- electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange; lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
A world of made
is not a world of born --- pity poor flesh
and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence. We doctors know
a hopeless case if --- listen: there's a hell
of a good universe next door; let's go
Good gods this poem was hard to figure out. Half the words are made up and the grammar makes no sense (not that any poem follows the logic of good grammar).
But, makes you think about how we treat this world and each other, just using something up until it's all done and moving on to the next thing.