Unrhymed, unrhythmical, the chatter goes:
Yet no one hear his own remarks as prose.
Beneath each topic tunelessly discussed
The ground-bass is reciprocal mistrust.
The names in fashion shuttling to and fro
Yield, when deciphered, messages of woe.
You cannot read me like an open book.
I’m more myself than you will ever look.
Will no one listen to my little song?
A howl for recognition, shrill with fear,
Shakes the jam-packed apartment, but each ear
Is listening to its hearing, so none hear.
"At the Party," W.H. Auden
[Chicago Avenue at Damen Avenue]
- ► 2011 (107)
- seeing snatches and staticky fragments
- working did to the trouble what gin did to the pai...
- they help to photograph thought
- don't give a damn
- relating a person to the whole world
- if they would only purr
- adore explosions
- authentic primitive
- all around in the dark
- At what precise moment had Peru...
- you cannot read me like an open book
- the strength of a majority is illusory
- to show people
- that still happens
- gaudy day
- woke on a sudden manhattan
- collector's passion
- fairly shrewd idea
- ▼ January (21)
- ► 2009 (279)