Clearly this is not my lineament. The ad-lib ideas and spontaneous kinks are far from something appropriate to be “blogged about”. Thence arrive to the finale where I offer my blood in exchange for foreignness to my own practices, in cases such, Blogging. What’s with blogging anyway? I’m certain to be comparatively better at snogging and hogging instead.
Stained history permits me to spoil even more desires, even more wells; so it ought to be safe to unleash this shrimp of a claim that within myself, as presumed, I find naught of any treat to anyone. I, therefore, rightly reckon to stick to Plan A, best players for best positions, and consecrate my humbleness to poetic mirage only, yes? *wink*
Poetry, I can ace any day but prose… drat.
4 comments:
Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry. (Guess Who?)
Oh my God, the wandering soul of W.B. Yeats?
Now that opportunity is here, I must tell you that you are my favourite twentieth century poet and that is saying something.
I blindly agree to you on rhetoric and poetry, by the bye.
A wise man once said, 'Each man carries within him the soul of a poet who died young.'
I'm not a poet but I may be carrying a soul of a poet who died but wants to send a message to another poet. :)
Though I can't boast familiarity with this wise man, I can see the silver lining in there.
Keats died young and his messages I keep piling, which makes you most welcome.
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