Will ache.'L ache on fire?Nothing can cancel Bright desire.
Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day. . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Yond light is not day-light, I know it, I;
It is some meteor that the sun exhal'd
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer
And light thee on thy way to Mantua.
Therefore stay yet, thou need'st not to be gone.
All poignancy of parting IS what I hoped to trace.TO greet the
Very sun?The flicker on its face.Two children caught in love,
A crueler sky.Parting their very last, for night has passed; they
Can't know why.The tale includes TWO lovers and a wedding
Night, Death in the warming chill of ill daylight.Some jealous
God were actively their Fate.The meal consum'd were WHAT
It ate.Separation plies its golden rod.'Tis odd but God is God,
The split's complete.An HOUR nears on trembling feet.THIS
Loving minute flashes at their skulls.The moment's TART; the
Deed controls.Jesu was Christ to this sad pair—FOR Southern
Homage strok'd the air.The air was air, bitter as the limitation
Strangling Broad Fate.Two souls consumed by what they ate!
Alack, alack, is it not like that I,
So early waking—what with loathsome smells,
And shrikes like mandrakes' torn out of the earth,
That living mortals, hearing them, run mad—
O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,
Environed with all these hideous fears,
And madly play with my forefather's joints,
And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud,
And in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone,
As with a club, dash out my desp'rate brains?
Desperately loath to life without her lover, ekes deadly Chance
With potion, a tentative, remedial, Death, yet fears some MAD
Attendance on its breath, proximity of ROT, of stench [ill-fated
Wench].A wrench to chance, to circumstance, a missive's late
Arrival; scant promise of revival, appointment with sanctioned
Arbiter and Cleric.FEW wax hysteric!Delicti Corpus IN the
Tomb, lately groomed for Tybalt.The argument is omen—To
Rejoin her lately lover, estrangement perhaps from kith, small
Lapse in an odd entrenchment.But wake TO sleep, TO death,
His merchant, to steep in crypt, MORE, moulder.Wedded to
GHASTLY bridal MATE, whirled by eddies of an Astral state,
Utter udder, TO speak, to shriek, TO leak—to mutter shudder!
Or if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,
Making it momentary as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream,
Brief as the lightning in the coiled night,
That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth;
And ere a man hath power to say "Behold!"
The jaws of death do devour it up:
So quick bright things come to confusion.
The Good were like a COMET creasing blackest night, comma
Alm-a, glitter scattering light.Resorts to such in verse are like
Inscriptions on a hearse.ALL substance wars, 'D wield an end
There.And coffins soften.Though much is laughter, sweet, all
Levities fear pain clots the throat, summons to mortal tears, that
Fears devour Elysium.Who spasms titter, wheeze, finds Death
The proper tease, AND anguish baits.A prating sorrow's in the
Wings, awaits its summons to reenter.Grief WILL certain heed
Her cue & trod the boards.Scenes shift if laughter's bored.Ill
Dons her formal threads [the casual seldom adorns ITS deads].
Misery's itch? a Proper lotion.Stun, Sum, ALL prayer is pitch,
Devotion!Come players, seldom the stately knows the motion.
Now, until the break of day,
Through this house each fairy stray,
To the best bride-bed will we,
Which by us shall blessed be,
And the issue, there create,
Ever shall be fortunate,
So shall all the couples three
Ever true in loving be;
And the blots of Nature's hand
Shall not in their issue stand,
Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar,
Nor mark prodigious, such as are
Despised in nativity,
Shall upon their children be.
Now this charming farce may be rooted in actuality.Issue of all
Blessed weddings have their share OF couple's blessings.FEW
Can earn eternal bliss.Behind the arras LIES a kiss.Deform'd
Lambkins, blots a'plenty.Should you wonder what I meant—"
He spoiled the drama's full effect!Keep'm on the margin, Sect.
FLAY such simples, grab their throats.Bride with pimples, off
Spring Goats?Naïvetè such nativity.Enough of Doggerel twixt
The story.Syntax wanes and Rhyming's Gory.Syntax suffers,
Rhyming's rotten.Free the Verse, curse what it got him.Father
Son AND Holy Ghost, treat this Bard like careless toast.Father
Son AND Holy Spirit, trim the sail before you steer it.Trim the
Wobbly Ship of State.Children, devour what's ON your Plate."
. . . I am a Jew.Hath not a Jew eyes?Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, heal'd by the same means, warm'd and cool'd by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is?If you prick us, do we not bleed?If you tickle us, do we not laugh?If you poison us, do we not die?And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that.If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility?Revenge.If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example?Why, revenge.The villainy you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.
I am an Arab.Hath not an Arab eyes?Hath Arab hands, heart,
Brain?Eats he not selfsame bread?And if you cut his throat is
He not dead?If harm a Jew, 'D latter not revenge?And Arab
Then?If you shoot me will I not bleed?If I wax usurious will
It not be counted Greed?Jew is often thus condemn'd.Have I
Nor Jew the means to make amends?Hath Jew not Friend?Or
Arab soil the very spirit that he lends?OFT-imputed Christian
Turns the cheek?Must Jew or Arab seethe for just a WEEK?I
HAVE no daughter?Hath JEW not Father?'D Arab disrespect
Jew's very Mother?Shoes REST upon the threshold of EVERY
Arab house.Fault Jew for lusting to be clean?Why Arab?'Tis
Hardly sacrilege in ANY Faith to starve this Parable of breadth?
You have among you many a purchas'd slave,
Which like your asses, and your dogs and mules,
You use in abject and in slavish parts,
Because you bought them.Shall I say to you,
"Let them be free!Marry them to your heirs!
Why sweat they under burthens?Let their beds
Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates
Be season'd with such viands"?You will answer,
"The slaves are ours."So do I answer you:
The pound of flesh which I demand of him
Is dearly bought as mine, and I will have it.
Small latitude in the Fundament.Anatomy's flawed.SAD men
Mount.OFTEN feels the Manly fool, his WIFE was bartered—
Like his tools.Wife's machine, yet where's the purpose?Major
Purchase; wrap it rotten?Godly gotten.To FILTH a slave is oft
Discrete.Lift the Holy to its proper seat [most SIT downward to
Excrete].Partner, for some is ruddy chattel.The war of sexes—
There's the battle! [ankle itself for some is prurient].Vaster item
To the fundament.Flog Koran, Bible, Gita, Vedas.Short of it is
Lust for ladies.Extended often immolation.Some Billion souls
For Each persuasion.A medium is SPLIT the Queen.For girl's
Unclean!Surly at 7, 9 obscene.Bury her heart in a pink Chadur.
Purchase virgin, Bury whore—her Wedding night is Rarely Pure.
But mercy is above this sceptred sway,
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute of God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice.Therefore, Jew,
Through justice be thy plea, consider this,
That in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation. . . .
The age-old argument, scarcely cloak'd, of Motivation vs. Deed.
A Jew would have a pound of Flesh.The Edge of need is hardly
Fresh.One can't traduce the State.Is kosher menu fit the plate?
Jesus were Jew in ODD men's eyes?Joseph himself a Christian
Prize?Paternity the holy Ghost.Then Godly enough the Christ
For most.This Portia seems meant as hypocrite, who'd slept on
Silk and dreamt on grit.Tattle the tale, endure the message.A
Christian founders in her presage.A Jew would bend to service
Fortune, to tan his hide, to Portia-portion.Pilate, the Great, had
Cleansed his grip.The Holy Land's a Frightful trip.We SANK
Some millions, Jews-for-Jesus.The faithful there still tease us!
Still seize and squeeze us!Shyer the lock but the story pleases!
. . . That he is old, the more the pity, his white hairs do witness it, but that he is, saving your reverence, a whoremaster, that I utterly deny.If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked!If to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I know is damn'd.If to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh's lean kine are to be lov'd.No, my great lord, banish Pero, banish Bardolph, banish Poins, but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being as he is old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry's company, banish not him thy Harry's company—banish plump Jack, and banish all the world.
Fat Jack a geriatric marvel?Brandish your hymnals at the great
Revival.An author's age proclaims the man.No simpleton this
Falstaff, catch as can.Sweet-kind, true-valiant, FAT Jack struts
The boards.This comic giant!Strum the chords.For some 'tis
Snivel to avoid attack; 'TIS mean for many, charm'd for JACK.
Or fancy many preen at 80?Then where's the fault—he nabbed
The bait, HE!Seldom ignores God's wayward mirror.'Tis odd
For some, draws audience nearer.Jack & Harry, Jack & prince
Jack the fairly God his Pater, Jack the wonder, fortune's quince!
Come take the bite, avoid the SEED.The PLUM has juice, one
Lauds the Deed!For grave cannot contain his soul, nor fire nor
Ash, nor hassle, hole.'Tis Jack you'll carry— Newcastle, Coal.
. . . and now my whole charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of companies—slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where the glutton's dogs lick'd his sores, and such as indeed were never soldiers, but discarded unjust servingmen, younger sons to younger brothers, revolted tapsters, and ostlers trade-fall'n, the cankers of a calm world and a long peace, ten times more dishonorable ragged than an old feaz'd ancient: and such have I. . . .A mad fellow met me on the way and told me I had unloaded all the gibbets and press'd the dead bodies.No eye had seen such scarecrows.
Would Zombies take up Battle, soulless tottering stiffs that Clank and
Rattle, snick of arthritic joints, a Dreadful tortured Dance of PUTRID
Flesh, a shriek, ungainly aching?Some heedless hoard unseemly cock
À roaches, fuzzed, despicable, creaking toward certain Ruin?And 'D
Cease upon the Fray, desist, resist in ghastly retreat, make HEAD for
Closest house of sale, for tapster?Plug awful Leaks of some Grosser
Fell disaster?This Falstaff commands a Troop!What mendacity 'D
Render Troop regroup?This legion of the lost, hideous umbilicus of
The damn'd, a Hellish screw of sorts, some Plaintive saint, or Corpse
Perhaps, taste of lapse, cosmic hare lip of the crass.And should God
Shudder?Such ragged crew of crows would covet Cover.'Tis WAR
Or fodder?Siren of Death requires NUN other.Her wretched Lover?
Why, thou owest God a death.
))))) PRINCE HAL
'Tis not due yet, I would be loath to pay him before his day.What need I be so forward with him that calls not on me?Well, 'tis no matter, honor pricks me on.Yea, but how if honor prick me off when I come on? how then? Can honor set to a leg?No.Or an arm?No.Or take away the grief of a wound?No.Honor hath no skill in surgery then?No. What is honor?A word. What is in that word honor?What is that honor?Air.A trim reckoning!Who hath it?He that died a' Wednesday.Doth he feel it?No.Doth he hear it?No.'Tis insensible then?Yes, to the dead.But will't not live with the living?No.Why?Detraction will not suffer it.Therefore I'll none of it, honor is a mere scutcheon.And so ends my catechism.
The least Jack lacked is onerous honor.You mount a steed, ARE
Likely on her.Stallion himself is certain on Him.The cost's the
Same; the price is GRIM.Filly castrato?Gelding FACT—OH?
Were better golden where fat Jack is headed.By sword or pistol,
Rope, he's Dead'd.The latter has her take on this.'Tis just that
Hard to fake a kiss.Curt courage engaged Cain unto Abel.'Tis
Calmer goner, read the label [SURELY a Master's up for libel].
The lesson on This syllabus is pride, possession, steep.Missive
Festive, awake, asleep.Falstaff has mores topsy-turvy.Book a
Passage, end in scurvy.Paradise is fodder in the cannon's jaw.
Breast is udder; Death is Law.Destined for an island, mind the
Prize.Some lost their legs; 4 heads are eggs, scaled up to Size!
Did he break out into tears?
In great measure.
A kind overflow of kindness.There are no faces truer than those that are so wash'd.How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping.
Schadenfreude!Iago lived it.Edmund lived for it.My Judith?
Ask'd fine Lady if she'd Stay in Stratford.Her Smile an Asp's
"Perhaps."By Christ, she wriggled in her seat.All this scribble
Hardly worth it.These dramas see the light and then they wane.
The upper levels have their taste.Groundlings have their OWN.
And mill about, consum'd by vittles, sack, the latest QUIP, The
Fashions.What's In what's Out—Lear had it Right.These Off
Sprung for the better weather and a dose of plague.A winsome
Smile, a nod.They'd have me Zeus, or Jupiter—since just last
Year verboten, "God."And didn't I pull it off for them?FOR
Hamnet, Judith, Anne?For one dark lady.For Southhampton.
Time comes one's Sick of it.Just then I'm in the THICK of it.
True?Who but a Jew would hoard such grief?Rend all thought
With Ought Belief?That suicide were ample option?Trust the
Lust but fear the motion!Mumble at King yet slaughter 6-some?
Tender Ophelia, Rosencrantz?Covet the steps but fail to Dance.
Reach some justice in the Fashion of his Dying?Guild Laertes,
ROAST the Frying.Spirit agéd Father in a Lock of Brain.Mad
Enough for subtle Pain.Baited swords, a poisoned Cup!Knelt
A Welt, abruptly supped.Mystified BOTH World and Rapture.
Etch'd the lecture:"Horatio, brother, at your Leisure.Mother,
Utter, Adder, udder.Mince the Prince and grave the pleasure!"
. . . who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents run awry,
And lose the name of action. . . .
My Hamlet were Solipsist of sort.His tryst was self. He prowl'd
The Court, dispensing calumny, contagion.Clawed oily Deep or
Lofty region—'twas ALL the same for such a brooder.His mien
Awry, from suit to tie, an open book in hand, he'd stand for hours
Coveting the moon.Some Call'd it Sage.His tarriance was self,
IN others Rage.No candidate for head of State beyond a lineage.
Yet likely for a Father's Ghost, Pervasive superstition.Few envy
Martyr's end of course—one must consider Source, an Inky cloak,
A disposition.To slaughter King, no matter Faction, involves the
Name of action, furor, a Vast of sort by Cage in Court or altar.He
Drew his death as one sucks breath.Premeditation?Claudius?A
King? Title itself was harsh abatis if not admir'd by quo or status.
O, my offense is rank, it smells to heaven,
It hath the primal eldest curse upon't,
A brother's murther.Pray can I not,
Though inclination be as sharp as will. . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother's blood,
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
To wash it white as snow? . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
In the corrupted currents of this world
Offense's gilded hand may shove by justice,
And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law, but 'tis not so above. . . .
The Bard foresees an age when Fratricide is favored, or courtesy
Some Odd behavior.When sacrilege will thumb its nose, when
Wisdom's on its toes, when property's the passion, Savior.All
Due respect—you differ?OR live to see proboscis stiffen such.
Such luck Is much.We CLAIM the Midas touch.We brandish
Crotch.The sheep are weak.The lions slaughter.ALL man IS
Banish'd by his Daughter.The Son's asleep.His Price is Steep,
All Purpose Purchase.God's ON the Market for a Crutch.HIS
Zeal is such that Incest has a Living.All is forgiven.The priest
Can paddle in a youngster's Drawers, slip STIFF to Sodom. The
Bargain's autumn.Cadavers soften. We Vie for mastery of our
Grief.God grieves His Sheaves.Salvation's POLITÌC BELIEF.
Now, Hamlet, where's Polonius?
Not where he eats, but where 'a is eaten; a certain convocation of politic worms are e'an at him.Your worm is your only emperor for diet: we fat all creature else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots; your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service, two dishes, but to one table—that's the end.
Again!Again!No matter sovereign grin, he's mortal.An antic
Burrows through the portal.A Prince 'S broken.No matter that
He's mad, that patch is sad or Prince has lost his dad, a subject's
Spoken.Claudius the unassailable is menu for a maggot's table.
Is kin to Beggar, PRIEST, a Feast.Lean or plumper, He's over
The hump here, Headed like Jaques for rot.The sniffler reveals
The snot, all coffin given.Royal Estate is riven.Where all BE
Corpse, we're certain Headed for Remorse.Today?I SAY rot
Tuesday. We can't expire till Wednesday.But then?The Total
Moment's Friday. But die tomorrow?Our Pact's with Mercy's
Simply Sorrow.This slug that buries through a motley's cheeks
Will dine on Prince.'TIS Eaten speaks.The RATThat squeaks!
If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
That strain again, it had a dying fall;
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odor.Enough, no more,
'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou,
That notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, not enters there,
Of what validity and pitch so'er,
But falls into abatement and low price
Even in a minute.So full of shapes is fancy
That it alone is high fantastical.
Your Shaksper was a humanist.He seldom mock'd the meat he
Kissed.If tendered Fancy was a tougher Splice, he'd Blame the
Same on cut or slice.Borrowed beauty OF the worldly matter.
Where beauty bent, he aped the sadder.Fancy was first for the
Idle swain.Genius was texture, plain was pain. Hope was All
Pity in a mad man's LIVING.Cost was forgiving. Drama was
Living [for this poor-in-hearted].Often forgiven at just what he
Started?Even in James' arid scene he found the means to Care
Or dream.Play hostess in a scheme or stance. Often humbled,
Dare to Dance.Pity or mercy for the crippled brain, for pitied
Itself or Lender's reign.Sadder tears were on the Roof.Sens'd
The Grandeur, bred, Uncouth.Nuance His Nature wit or Truth.
What is love?'Tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure.
In delay there lies no plenty,
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty;
Youth's a stuff will not endure.
))))) CLOWN 's song
What captivates is range—from Softly sweet, to SAD, derang'd.
From chill of justice in the courts to mercy herself quite OUT of
Sorts.From hand that's wedded to a matron's thigh, to rage and
Heartache ON the Sly.From truth Endur'd to Falsity.French to
Fact, from Me to Thee. Shaksper Might Perish in This Stroll on
Boards, Usual chatter, Safe rewards.No Great amount of Strife
Can Test a living place for Poet's Quest.For Fortune's Cruel to
All the Rest.For Fortune's cruel and Fame is Lean.The DEAF
Survive or die midstream.Perish a child, than ask its MOTHER.
Perish a Poet, WHO can Bother?VERSE is the Curse a SCOPE
Invented.Rich or cruel, poor, demented.Gather wit's heart for
The Sore OPPRESS'D.GATHER Him Gently, Let HIM REST.
. . . Honors thrive,
When rather from our acts we them derive
Than our foregoers.The mere word's a slave
Debosh'd on every tomb, on every grave
A lying trophy, and as oft is dumb
Where dust and damn'd oblivion is the tomb
Of honor'd bones indeed.What should be said?
If thou canst like this creature as a maid,
I can create the rest.Virtue and she
Is her own dower; honor and wealth from me.
Here Shaksper, Edging Inexorably toward Dotage, has Royalty
In just as many words promoting royal Hell, a classless society.
That stings such anarchy is slyly lessened by their owner; King
Berate kingship Duke laud meritocracy madman democracy or
Motley a vulnerability of inherited nobility.If all this scents or
Edges toward blasphemy, remember God's name's verboten in
Just 1606 upon the stage, for Stuarts have come of age, Papacy
Primal for the nonce.Does playwright take a chance?If Lads
Are still skirts on stage, the Stuart cosmos still a codpiece AGE,
Bathing yet dangerous to well-being, what Open'd up is Hardly
Fleeing, Courtly habits difficultly freeing.Prospero, in Retreat
'D summon magic.Yet witch 'D burn in turn for darker traffic.
It may be you have mistaken him, my lord.
And shall so ever, though I took him at prayers.Fare you well, my lord, and believe this of me: there can be no kernel in this light nut; the soul of this man is his clothes.Trust him not in matter of heavy consequence; I have kept of them tame, and know their natures.Farewell, monsieur, I have spoken better of you than you have or will to deserve at my hand, but we must do good against evil.
A tailor made Him? The future will not abrade Him.IF Youth
Itself shall not endure the counterfeit is staunch, secure.Those
Making for the feast—diseas'd, deceas'd?And black the locks
With Polish—SHOE?Brass the waist, Baste and CHEW.OR
High fantastical, the Lot &.Consum'd by Assets never gotten.
Narcissus for the Age—from Witless youth to Doddering sage.
Our brains are buckled to our Corset.Grow from Badder into
Worse-it. Life were sadder than 'tis comic.Ban your Skeptic
Pinch the vomit.Olive envy, sweet and 80.Where the end be
Question's weighty.Man seems born to glow forever.Cancel
Chancel, thought or fever.Then come fork me, 90-9. Stale the
Time.Life is matter vast, divine. Seal the coffin, pop the Wine.
How mightily sometimes we make us comforts of our losses!
))))) first LORD
And how mightily some other times we drown our gain in tears!The great dignity that his valor hath here acquir'd for him shall at home be encount'red with a shame as ample.
))))) second LORD
The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together; our virtues would be proud, if our faults whipt them not, and our crimes would despair, if they were not cherish'd by our virtues.
Ambivalence—presented Fact or FONDLE?Fact, perception, Bliss
Or Wept—a clotted bundle.We will to Scream But mumble?THIS
Whole Creation is a tumble! Our total bag of blessings are an Ache?
We drop the glass and will it break?Evehiss'd the adder Adam ate!
What's sought is seldom our desire.The chill of Death is in the fire.
The total motion's in the rest?The rest itself is Quest.We FALL in
Love and beat our chest.Mercy to the man that's master'd Paradise.
Complicity has Tried it on for size.Mercy on MAN that's Master'd
Satan.Whence entered worm that culp'd the Aten?Where Lucifer
Minus God that whelp'd 'M?Where Gorgon, Host that helped him?
Three wicked Sisters, even More, that captur'd our Macbeth?Total
Crew.Are out of EDEN?The weird, fear'd, Arch, or angel, Eaten?
He eats nothing but doves, love, and that breeds hot blood, and hot blood begets hot thoughts, and hot thoughts beget hot deeds, and hot deeds is love.
Is this the generation of love—hot blood, hot thoughts, and hot deeds?Why, they are vipers.Is love a generation of vipers?
There is an age [some comes never] when passions relent the dull
The Clever.When torment Ceases to Dissever, marriage, Mortal
Ache, endeavor.The era often curs'd as evil, a potency Seems of
The Devil, Mephisto's Work, the Devil's stance.Some Trust the
Freedom it endows, by chance.'Tis not that wench or lad would
Sour in Mind's eye, or carnal lust—'tis not that Sigh or Thigh no
Longer thrust the usual tragic.'Tis less than fever, even magic.A
Syllable in life's sentence.Nor need one wield protest, WAX wild
Or penance.The muddle's gone, & vista clear.One turns to view
The truly dear.A passion for the Loveliness of what was Once an
Awesome mess, stress, hardship, painful longing.The world itself
Is sweet.A stranger alter? 'Tis odd 'tis God, we change the altar!
Could great men thunder
As Jove himself does, petty officer
Would use his heaven for thunder,
Nothing but thunder!Merciful heaven,
Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt
Splits the unwedgeable and gnarled oak
Than the soft myrtle, but him, proud man,
Dress'd in a little brief authority,
Most ignorant of what he's most assur'd
(His glassy essence), like an angry ape
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
As makes the angels weep; who, with our spleens,
Would all themselves laugh mortal.
Vanity of Vanities!Whom to cull or who to please.Whom to
Gull or Who to tease?VAIN man Takes his Pomp with Ease.
Takes his Pomp with GLORY, motion.Catalogues with LUST,
Devotion.Catalogues with Jew and Gentile.Mocks the Weak
And scorns the gentle.Fiercely pompous strutting Fool, Pity's
Tyrant, misery's tool.Man, oh MAN, oh Little Strutting Man!
Saddest wrinkle in the plan.Cease, desist before he's gobbled.
Someone just might love the troubled.Just might rip HIS tiny
Throat, rake him for a strutting goat.Man, oh man, oh strutting
Man.Even pigmy serves God's plan. Pigmy errs unto the vast!
Sermon, Priest, Jehovah, PEST.Catch as can.Mock the Plan.
How can wrinkle understand?Even wrinkles etch God's hand.
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot:
This sensible warm motion to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;
To be imprison'd in the viewless winds
And blown with restless violence round about
The pendant world; or to be worse than worst
Of those that lawless and incertain thought
Imagine howling—'tis too horrible!
The weariest and most loathed worldly life
That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment
Can lay on nature is a paradise
To what we fear of death.
I knew a gentleman who ended mute, perfectly sensible but stuck
In His own ordure urine slobber stench, for 30 weeks before God
Took him, where? we know not where.This comely MAN of wit
And substance, Wealth and Spirit, was Crucified in fashion More
Terrible than youth or beauty'd dare to comprehend.The MAN
Was loyal, Just, Adhered to All the Merciful conventions of His
Race, had rais'd a family, trac'd his perfect fortune through this
Errant Globe with Equanimity, Amity and Precision.Can such
BE life's revision?Is IT not hell?To rot in one's carnal stink?
Is such MAN or man-un-kind?Can All life be so Precious that
The benefactor roots like swine on Nature's udder?Your Shake
Would Have it Other, term such Death and degradation UTTER!
O place and greatness! millions of false eyes
Are stuck upon thee.Volumes of report
Run with these false, and most contrarious quest
Upon thy doings; thousand escapes of wit
Make thee the father of their idle dream,
And rack thee in their fancies.
Who's in who's out?As wight 'D make his way upon the stage,
I cannot be privy to the goings-on of State, of this, that Master's
Grand escape, Lord Humble's latest wenching, Earl Prod's favor
Among the stately elite or whom Count X were clenching.What
Gown had promised high or dipp'd, what bodice ripp'd or Wine,
Or who might dine with even James tonight.No, such is not the
Regimen I'd cite, who'd rather sleep his unattended night, break
Fast with porridge, sword in storage, pistols void of ammunition.
An honest living, a wife, a child and far from Vild.Has Fortune
Smil'd on Earl of Southhampton?OH Certain there is RUMOR
There, a whiff of scented tumult I can share, 'tis in the OFFING.
But rather Dignity of sorts and little Prone to Crown or Doffing.
Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,
But seeming so, for my peculiar end;
For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
In complement extern, 'tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.
From broad OTHELLO must assume the scholar who 'D bother
Honest is the major entry in Will's canon.30, 40 occasion?OR
Never taken notion?One must assume Iago's such?'Twas my
Intention.Cover'd the track as best I Could, that Man of Girth
And wit, not wood, were gull'd by one no casual flit but Ancient
In arms unstated years, no pimp no frump no steer, but GRAND
Assistant.The story HANGS on trust, sincerity.The Bard must
Lean on clarity or obvious takes hold.Certain the Moor WERE
Sage enough upon the ramparts.BE gull'd by wight of dubious
Parts?The action would be flaw'd.'Tis odd that greatness. . . ?
How cudgel noble brain as Moor's to dreg in facile Ruin?ALL
For Emelia's theft, a Subtle napkin, fragile HEFT for screwing?
O villainous!I have look'd upon the world for four times seven years, and since I could not distinguish betwixt a benefit and an injury, I never found man that knew how to love himself.
Onthe other hand, THIS Bite, this clever Adder, delineates HIS
Master's 2 great flaws succinctly.What CHAMPIONS collapse
From warrior to jealous cuckold.Othello has never truly known
Himself beyond persona, Nor plumb'd the depth of self alone, a
Troubled summa bona.Such only itches at his rage, frustration.
With age one learns. Othello simply burns.And more so Hates
His Being.Iago alone the spider, snake can spot the seeing, the
Gull, Patch, Fool Othello's fleeing.His Desdemona adores Her
General.Infatuation's often general.Skeptics CROWD SOUL
With doubt.A handkerchief's what doubt's about. And Set his
Psyche on the SHELF—there's no critique.In Time, With time,
Perhaps a week Othello aches.Pity that heart this noble breaks.
Had it pleas'd heaven
To try me with affliction, had they rain'd
All kind of sores and shames on my bare head,
Steep'd me in poverty to the very lips,
Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes, I should have found in some place of my soul
A drop of patience; . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
But there, where I have garner'd up my heart,
Where either I must live or bear no life;
The fountain from the which my current runs
Or else dries up: to be discarded thence!
Or keep it as a cestern for foul toads
To knot and gender in!Turn thy complexion there,
Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubin—
Ay, here look grim as hell!
This green-eyed monster that afflicts thee.This carbuncle, brain
And innards.This GOAT-fac'd LOUT with swinish snout, This
Crippl'd centaur.Eye what thou art, Othello!Riddled in fitches
Haunted with sullen, Mockery, pitches, scalding your Britches—
Canker and itches—wight who was rais'd to ruin under Southern
Star!Look at this curse Our Shaksper heaps upon thee.Attend!
To the Worst!See'st thou burst?Idler of horns, decidua Scorns
Thee.Fell'd by thy very hand?Such is God's plan.Suckle this
Rotting moment.Such is thy torment.10,000 lashes?GLANCE
Up this April Morning.Look Up, thy gashes are Burning.Skies
Leak a molten lead.Desdem Is dead.Chaos Is Thrust.Shriek as
THOU Must, Jahweh is dust.Sup upon Terror.All Life is Error.
It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul;
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars,
It is the cause.Yet I'll not shed her blood,
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
Yet she must die, else she betray more men.
Put out the light, and then put out the light:
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent me; but once put out thy light,
Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light resume. . . .
Prometheus thiev'd fire, a wretched trick.The punishment was
Harsh, the matter thick.Othello's snuff'd his lover's life.Such
Fashion to divorce a wretched wife!Such fashion to decide the
Matter!Is murther simply blood or Sadder?The Moor enjoy'd
A blessèd State, supremely general to the greatly great.Paragon
Of virtue, trust.How a man of years descends to dust!Wedded
To lust and indecision, Othello pander'd to a serpent's vision.A
Prey to Slant, Cant, subterfuge, a LARGE misspoken Judgement,
Huge.Buried his rage and sorrow with a purloin'd sword.Such
Little death!Was audience BOR'D?The groundling Thrives on
Baited bears.As well the moneyed in their silver chairs.As well
The rarest in their golden Box.A Poet sings but Money TALKS!
O ill-starr'd wench,
Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt,
This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven,
And fiends will snatch at it.Cold, cold, my girl?
Even like thy chastity.O cursed, cursed slave!
Whip me, ye devils,
From the possession of this heavenly sight!
Blow me about in winds! roast me in sulpur!
Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire!
O Desdemon! Dead, Desdemon! Dead!
Such passions as we greet in Such a Moor!The Pain 'D Blanch
A Leper sore.Would DRIVE all Demon from a Soul Possess'd.
The hue and cry of bedlam's trivial against the rest.Such shriek
In truest Time would rouge a shuddering Year.'Tis BARD they
Fear, 'tis loss.Wrenched by the Gall of my own lungs.An only
Son's. Hamnet! spoken with sever'd tongue as if Demon seiz'd
The core of Shaksper's being.Carnal specter that he's Fleeing, a
Flesh made spirit.Come God, Light!I'd trade my vision for the
Sight.One sweet Night that breaks for supple Form, Lad's GRIP
Upon an shoulder.Lad's kiss, lad's bliss or even colder.Molten
Brass my tears at his return.Such the Fire that has me burn.'D
Itch Devil into belly, a thousand Hamlets for a lad's . . . hell He!
Out, vild jelly!
Where is thy luster now?
All dark and comfortless!Where is my son Edmund?
Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature,
To quit this horrid act.
The old man blinded in part by the very son he trusted, Edmund
The bastard.We catch him pleading to the cruel Gods surcease
Of mighty sorrow.Ah Gloucester, has just begun his journey to
Despair.The air is rank with evil.Two daughters inscribe their
Assignation with the Devil.Edmund is Earl while Father inches
Toward Dover.Edgar will hover.Here is our pain in battalions.
This Time I gathered all my Wit to make a Pact with Teeth, with
Bloody stallions.They paw the night.They tremble fierce flesh
Andhumble sight.The probable has waned.Waxes fierceness!
An aged sovereign stumbles heath and storm to tender WORM,
Worm's smile, an awful scar. Would seem yet are in such Vast
Equation.Lear minus LEAR is Gloucester.'Tis darkest Ostler.
As flies to wanton boys are we to th'gods,
They kill us for their sport.
In another year the Court 'D banish'd God, a Term at least, from
Drama.Banish'd His kingdom, Panorama?'Tis terror this dark
Vision of world Spirit.Remove an S from Gloucestor's horrific
Speech were blasphemy, I fear'dit.Would Christian Deity play
Lad with flies?Set them afire, tear wings, dip creature in God's
Cries?Where is the VAST Creator who would succor an Earl's
Despair?Has vanished like weird sister in the air?Blister'd his
Own skin and mock'd his prayer?Where generates such horror
In a poet's heart?Where Ends and where doth Start?'TIS JOB
Of sorts this awful vision.Married to Martyrs, Sons, and Fierce
Derision.Youth exits.A stage is clear'd.'Tis not the world we
Fear'd.'Tis April morning.A bard's soon done with mourning.
Behold yond simp'ring dame,
Whose face between her forks presages snow;
That minces virtue, and does shake the head
To hear of pleasure's name—
The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to't
With a more riotous appetite.
Down from the waist they are Centaurs,
Though women all above;
But to the girdle do the gods inherit,
Beneath is all the fiends': there's hell, there's darkness,
There is the sulphurous pit, burning, scalding,
Stench, consumption.Fie, fie, fie! pah, pah!
HORROR of the Female's VAST, eternal, her Menstrual blush,
Infernal.That pinches sex, castrating HEX, a stink below their
Necks, a muddy slime.These brutes would Rest their Quest IF
Given time.The female is a stale of mind.Bear children, cook
OR gather?I'd have them virgin rather, aloft and unassailable,
Than set me DOWN to matron's table.Lear's daughters, some
Two of them were easily such, averse to Sympathy OR Touch!
You mock this grand assumption?A leak of bile, consumption!
Small wonder a BARD deserted Stratford.Where Avon leak'd
'D spat for it.Judith herself was stink possess'd—I'll get THIS
Ratter off my chest!Would summer in France remove to Spain
Would hassle brain, calumnious. A STUFF of cuss and Uterus!
. . . Come, let's away to prison:
We two alone will sing like birds i' th' cage;
When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down
And ask of thee forgiveness.So we'll live,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues
Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too—
Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out—
And take upon's the mystery of things
As if we were God's spies; and we'll wear out,
In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones,
That ebb and flow by th'moon. . . .
On the Other hand, I'll let it stand—that She is Lovely beyond
Measure, or humankind's unsightly treasure, soft as the spring,
This siren so Oft suffering, her subtle brow to limped Eyes.Or
In No sense so much, Or garment's drape or even duty, gentler
Beauty a wake or teasing.Love has had woman in her seizing!
Or not for logic even reason, but rather to capture what it knew
From autumn, Other season?Some Curious Chapter, Mystery!
Yet unveiled in human history?From Cleopatra, Venus, Circe!
From dazzling touch to abject misery.I speak of Trace.Have
Surely seen the virgin inclination, face.And will'd to erase its
Surging to rarity from commonplace.Cordelia lives.All Saint
Forgives.Cordelia smiles.At counter gender's Grace or wiles.
And my poor fool is hang'd!No, no, no life!
Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,
And thou no breath at all?Thou'lt come no more,
Never, never, never, never, never.
Never nevers?The fact dissevers.LEAR recovers Faith, Again
Despair.Mortality's stink is on the air.The gentlest Wight that
Breath'd is dead.Too much to FATHOM, even dread.Cordelia
Ceases to exist: eyes, Brain, lips.A solemn FATE attends OUR
Living.When maggot smiles, he's not forgiving.The Touch of
Maiden has its rending for sapling bent will bend no ending.Ah
Lear, ah Lear, WE Fear your FEAR!Corpse Sprouts like Lilacs
In this darkest year.Edgar will covet.Doubt will tease.Foolish
Lout will shout, disease.Margin of victory often pyrrhic, sudden
Is Death and Brave Men fear it.Fear Death, Decay, a Monstrous
Birth.Maggots attending sullen Earth.Cordelia, Patch, a victim
Hang'd.Strange so strange!Monstrous motion, fierce derang'd.
. . . I am Thane of Cawdor.
If good, why do I yield to that suggestion
Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,
Against the use of nature?Present fears
Are less than horrible imaginings:
My thought, whose murther yet is but fantastical,
Shakes so my single state of man that function
Is smother'd in surmise, and nothing is
But what is not. . . .
This Thane, near King, is soon to yield soul and sleep to fateful
Journey.For King, still Thane at heart, is part and parcel, TO a
Witch's bourn—he raps ambition on a deadly door, slight, ajar,
The gateway to murder'd Duncan.Macbeth is rude but coax'd
By bride. Maugre Leman, Lady, Pride.Soon Brach Contriv'd.
Arriv'd the fateful hour.Blood on their Hands like Kith-man's
Dower 'L never free vex'd Claudius either.Or tainted sanguine,
Sickly odor, will Couple a wedded Nightly murder.Guilt of an
Order?Blood begets such in Banquo, other.Flesh begets flesh,
The Quest, its brother.Killer, kinsman, all must weep.Cawdor
Has slept a final sleep.Scotland restore a sainted Seed.Mercy
Or wisdom, wrath is Greed.Evil Endures when Bleeder bleeds.
. . . Besides, this Duncan
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been
So clear in his great office, that his virtues
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongu'd, against
The deep damnation of his taking-off;
And pity, like a naked new-born babe,
Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubin, hors'd
Upon the silent couriers of the air,
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,
That tears shall drown the wind. . . .
Like bait for bears our groundlings cherish Slaughter, Tears.SO
Long as grief is JUST.Whoever endures the carnage must QUIT
Acquitted.An ethos of Idle rules the Theatre.Chaos for Othello
Comes again.Iago is toasted for his pains.Cornwall absorbs his
Servile sword.Edmund is simply bored.Or rendered to halves?
Sullen the cattle, naïve as calves.We tailor vendors to the ready
Show.Where show must go.The drama must have legs!Serve
A Proper play must Ravage ALL offense.Morality is Clever but
The Moral dense.The price is often long and hard.We struggle
With the Action and regard the purse.We kill the curs'd.Kneel
OR retard.Pity the State, its ward.Pity this plot-forsaken Bard.
. . . Come, seeling night,
Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day,
And with thy bloody and invisible hand
Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond
Which keeps me pale!Light thickens, and the crow
Makes wing to th' rooky wood;
Good things of day begin to droop and drouse,
Whiles night's black agents to their preys do rouse.
Thou marvel'st at my words, but hold thee still;
Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.
So prithee go with me.
The power of the language Oft stuns Myself, old Fitchew Shake;
And seeing thus myself a stranger taken, some weird old Wight,
That wonders how he'll sleep forsaken, some eighty Souls vying
For the MATTER—lift a Session from their Maker, the priester
Pomper, prince, the Gift, the Taker.I'm crowded, this odd Soul
With London's hue and cry and can't say why this scribbling IS
Such torment.Why the truth of Shake were up for comment, Or
Prefecture.And wish'd above all mercy I had Turn'd weird Gift
To better Lecture.This Macbeth here, so voluble, so odd, those
Phrases seemingly from God or Madman, Satan.And then HIS
Woman—to conjure up that sickness for display were somehow
Omen.Scarf up the tender eye?To explanation?Wither, why?
. . . Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more.It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing. . . .
Had God Jehovah scribbled such a speech, his Adam, even Eve
Would be less beholding.The quills I grip oft seem scolding, &
Well, Chancy, for even our odd unseemly crupper.Who'd have
This Shaksper in for supper, were sermon tract?They Oft decry
A script I hand them.Larger than why or who commands them?
You'd think some awful link from Muse to message.Were poet
Sage, enrag'd, berserk and not this law abiding clerk, or Morley
MAS-ter!Quite honest can't recall the prompting or the jester!
Is Shaksper going bleak?'D summon Satan speak?Would Call
Saltpetre tinder?Such speaks to my frustration—a normal Chap
Who'd have his pint of bitter. No fake, no Snake, or usual rake
That'd take up 2nd pint but not a tippler.With wench a Sippler!
Where think'st thou he is now?Stands he, or sits he?
Or does he walk?Or is he on his horse?
O happy horse to bear the weight of Antony!
Do bravely, horse, for wot'st thou whom thou mov'st?
The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm
And burgonet of men.He's speaking now,
Or murmuring, "Where's my serpent of old Nile?"
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . Broad-fronted Caesar,
When thou was here above the ground, I was
A morsel for a monarch; and great Pompey
Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow;
There would he anchor his aspect, and die
With looking on his life. . . .
This lady's wit's capacious as her kitty.Empress Egypt, MORE
Than pretty.Collects the movers of the Earth, if not for children
Then a subtle birth.Cleopatra, where she's at were hard to truly
Guess.Sexual pleasure, happiness.Wit as wide as edge, THAT
Keen.Climbs a silver ladder to her perfect dream.Surveys from
Pith all tenderness.Where she's at were, hard to guess.A Press
Of fate attends her being, Queen of the Nile and All that's Living.
Serpent of grandeur, adder's bite.Realm of the dark and endless
Night.Glitter by day, flair by morning.Given to shatter without
Warning.A Holy host lies in her mirror, trapp'd by the countless
Souls that fear her.Cleopatra, where she's at were hard to guess.
Torrent of Isis, KHEM, I'd Stress.Adder's Bite and Tenderness.
Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety.Other women cloy
The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry
Where most she satisfies; for vildest things
Become themselves in her, that the holy priests
Bless her when she's riggish. . . .
Riggish, wanton in a Layman's language.Piggish is pomp, our
Lady's savage.Splendor contrives to shadow such.Touch is a
Motion, such is much.Cleopatra's a General's dream—wench
To comfort, tease to Queen.Beauty as hers would BE obscene
STALE so livid in a churl's sad scheme.Cleopatra vivid walks
The Nile, rides in splendor, struts in Style.Darker Female than
Her usual station, bright as sunset, evening's Ration.Where IS
This lass of FERAL culture?Press the raptor train the Vulture?
Cherish her living, taste her faults?Princes sleep forever in the
Cloister'd vaults. Pharaohsdream eternal sweep.There by our
Sphinx the Mother speaks.Utter all FLESH, 'tis freshly Sweet.
Coffin-offing winding sheet.Cosmos ever HAD the tale repeat.
You must not think I am so simple but I know the devil himself will not eat a woman.I know that a woman is a dish for the gods, if the devil dress her not.But truly, these same whoreson devils do the gods great harm in their women; for in every ten they make, the devils mar five.
Well, get thee gone, farewell.
Yes, forsooth, I wish you joy o' th' worm.
Cleopatra, what's she after?Cruel the dying.Even trying.Kiss
Of venom.Fear the plenum.Vivid lady in a wicked city.Awe
And pity.Child so pretty.Odd she'd perish!Swoon or cherish!
Ask'd for mercy from a clown.Venus, Circe put her down.'Tis
The motion.Soft devotion.'Tis the silk.Stroke and milk.'Tis
The horror.Human error.Vivid Empress in a wicked city.Just
To BE!To be that pretty.Father Son and Holy Spirit.Wench is
Shortly dead I fear it.Father Son and Holy Ghost.Bite the worm
Or burn the toast.Father, Ghost.Burn the Host.Father, Spirit.I
Was near it.Near my captor.Fear'd the Rapture!Near devotion.
Soft the motion!Near the plenum.Chas'd the venom!Cruel the
Living.Saint's Forgiving!Cruel the Peace.A Wench deceas'd!
. . . Poor venomous fool,
Be angry, and dispatch.O, could'st thou speak,
That I might hear thee call great Caesar ass
Unpolicied! . . .
O eastern star! . . .
. . . Peace, peace!
Dost thou not see my baby at my breast,
That sucks the nurse asleep? . . .
Antony gone, she flees this hideous motion toward his arms.He
Waits at the very center.There in armor, Welt in an angry belly!
Creation burns!An adder suckles at the lady's breasts.World's
Shudder.The universe is wind.Treasure winds.Some paradox
Is here.Of sudden, childless, nurses Death.The Shriek is in the
Goblet where she last suck'd Water.Torment for the Terror.It
Captures egress by the moment.There Exists no Larger instant.
Whirl galaxy. Whirl sun and star, for Empress SUPS the moon!
Such Rare and raging Beauty.Adder nurses at Cleopatra!This
Hisses sharply into slumber.What Chill to breast no Daughter!
What ache, what carnage!Here is the living's nadir.Here is all
Torture!Antony waits upon his Sister!An adder's Kissed Her!
You taught me language, and my profit on't
Is, I know how to curse. . . .
To simply sense the itch of Bard's despair?A scent of sullen air.
Perdition catch my Spirit!This victory's pyrrhic.Water attends
My banquet in the mortal.To sup, to drown, I enter at the portal.
Witch predicts my name will last forever.Such the subtle charm
Of an angry never.Chill 'D dissever.Even the measured.What
Boots this fumbling for an Idle message?How Vild the presage!
Every some thousand years a Poet's born.And Death, where 'D
Go, 'Tis seldom bourn.Born vast oblivion, a mote in an August
Sun.Bear vacuous waste, bear sum.Bear Wither.'Tis Certain
Wits are seldom Hither.And Beauty IS rarely Textur'd by their
Limitations.God on this fragile globe greets anguish, tribulation.
Bury me deep in dazzling Spring!Protect the font of Everything.
A most ridiculous monster, to make a wonder of a poor drunkard!
Can they sense?Can they sense?'Tis what I've made of JOHN
Falstaff.I mock myself?Wit wanes and pain HAS eaten health.
Jehovah's children have their master.THIS master's small, And
God is vaster.'D close with Prospero were the ending neat.But
Shaksper must scribble, pander cheat.Carry over past the call of
Calling.Fret the simple, gull the galling.Ready wit is a bootless
Venture.Bread in belly is the best adventure.You lost the teeth?
They say there's denture.Careless of linen is the threat of dying.
Pots or pans?'Tis more the frying.Shaksper 'D COOK up God
And Devil.Garnish the pepper with a thrust at level.Serve up a
Moor, many princes.Top with a slice of what convinces.Hap'd
To impart a Beast the sense is.Hope my heaven's free of fences.
Our revels now are ended.These our actors
(As I foretold you) were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air,
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And like this insubstantial pageant faded
Leave not a rack behind.We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep. . . .
How SAD!How awfully SAD!Did I write that?'TIS poignant
Yet, a sharp regret.Such soul would kick a CAT.Small wonder,
That.Some final story.We strain to live and die to glory.Such
Is the Nature of the human Beast.Early to Dinner, late to Feast.
Even the Healthy are Diseas'd.Even the Healthy Stink, decease.
Shaksper would utter final wisdom.Marry all structure to a jake
He piss'd in.Most would term this indecision.Bland is the diet,
Pale the vision.Ye, o Ye, a play must end. Wit to wanton, stale
Or friend.Seldom that genius has a friend.Most settle for Anne
A wife, a trend.God knows where He spits.And where it lands.
Let Stranger CATER to His strange Demands.Someone Rarely
Future?Someone SICK?The Play's the thing, but wit is Thick!
. . . I knew a man
Of eighty winters—this I told them—who
A lass of fourteen brided.'Twas thy power
To put life into dust; the aged cramp
Had screw'd his square foot round,
The gout had knit his fingers into knots,
Torturing convulsions from his globy eyes
Had almost drawn their spheres, that what was life
In him seemed torture.This anatomy
Had by his young fair fere a boy, and I
Believ'd it was his, for she swore it was,
And who would not believe her? . . .
So desperate to endure!Inseminate a childish whore?Rut child
Indeed and lust for more?This doddering stiff must last, restore.
All Semen Such, a terror, Treasure.All seed to sprout, a lad, 'tis
Pleasure.KNEW man indeed 'D coupl'd infant.Such civil soul
Should burn, repent.Knew Masters of the trade I've squandered
Lay pipe to lad that quickly founder'd.Lay seed to stamen, bud,
To blossom.Eyed ignorance of winter, awesome. Wave Breaks
Surely on the shore,yet waves repeat forever, more.What fancy
Cling to youth or clever?Like Lear to Patch to never never.For
Life is such, a wave on water.Forgive the impulse of this MAN
Who bought there.Who purchas'd youth or rhyme divine, with
Decadence, a wrinkle, mime.Odd god, forgive MY final Crime.
. . . Thy name, my most kind virgin?
Recount, I do beseech thee.Come sit by me.
My name is Marina. . . .
. . . O, I am mock'd,
And thou by some incensed god sent hither
To make the world to laugh at me. . . .
To grieve a child!To grieve a child, Marina!How tortured as
Our Pericles might BE, to break a void quite sudden fill'd!'D
Drive man to despair.Fruit of insidious labor's in the air.And
Yearning rare.Impossible the tear.Such emptiness is rare.'D
Only speculate at this condition.A zero's void is vast omission!
Cessation'd Leak Naked mockery, an Insolence.That Daughter
Ripp'd from one's very Gut are re-embodied by a solemn waif,
Such blissful hurtful joyous ugly sweep.The sweep the edge is
Deep, the torment blinding.Bard's Patch is reconstructed.The
Ache so fierce its owner desurrected. Where in God's kingdom?
Odd summons to fulfill?Our God is Ill.Fell Pericles is Savage.
This gain is darker than the loss, a hideous prank, a noble ravage.
Oh Helicanus, strike me, honored sir,
Give me a gash, put me to present pain,
Lest this great sea of joys rushing upon me
O'erbear the shores of my mortality,
And drown me with their sweetness. . . .
Elektra regain her brother?The savage joy can claim no mother.
ALL relative has ceas'd.This joy is utter, near DISEASE.Man
Clings to NO such radiance.Is such the fated promise of a LIFE
Still-born?Tissue of heart itself is torn.Dark bliss cannot recall
Such cadence.Shriek'd affirmation erupts from a father's chest!
Pericles would summon Pity in a QUEST, in partial PAIN.'TIS
Agony's sweet essence.Marina has given self to know her KIN.
The loss has been.Ripped from his life a child!And then return
A Virgin, Vild!Searing beauty nearly claims him.Duty is vivid
In a recognition.This waif that was my daughter.I've lived the
Livid slaughter.And resurrected?Come GASH my soul.FLAY
Body whole, sear ghost, I fear it.Thoughts race; I cannot clear it.