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Array
(
[sid] => 143308
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Bits (1996)
[time] => 2008-06-18 01:39:58
[hometext] => This is the original more anxt riddenversion of 'rest in pieces': If there's one thing worse than being dumped it's being dumped AND a lit student studying post modernism too wrapped up to get out...Be interesting to see which version u prefer and why.
[bodytext] => ‘.......Who’d stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech - (which I have not) - to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, ‘Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark’ - and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth and made excuse, - E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop............’ My Last Duchess : Robert Browning I miss you, to pieces, Consumed, by a passion, for, bits. Love stoops to tolerate itself, in minute mouthfuls, by candle light. The less I see your mind, the more I might imagine, being mistress of these, bits. If you had time enough to deconstruct, to cut me into standard verse, you might find in it, a voice to say, ‘Ah, here’s the bit that pleases me, Or, Good Sweet- exactly such and such offends my taste.’ You hated me, taking things to pieces, analysing feelings. Emotions? They’re just chemicals, you used to say just like going to the loo. If the missing starts in me, Then how may I begin to see? the bit that spurs my leaping heart, the space I chew on in my head, the changeling child that clamours for my care, and, finding my breast dry, drinks in my spleen. Bits, a puzzle. Have I lost you? Then who wins? You? You found who I really was, the fiend that lived behind falling to pieces, falling into bed with you, falling in and out of love with you. So that you could find the cracks, tranquillise your monster and stop the bits from coming in. Coherence at last, Good taste. What’s the story worth? - A pittance. You’re hiding half the puzzle’s pieces. Alone with my imagination, with my pen, could I not draw them out? And craft, from intellectual apathy a hideous DWEM , that breaks in my words, for my own good, that makes my pen, a phallacy ! I’ll make him meet himself one day in the image of my clowning, in the cut off bits, the waxed off hair, the garish paint, I love to wear. Beauty is truth and truth is beauty, Good taste asks to be seen to bed, dressed in a straight jacket, so put out the light and put away all poets! Even now very now you will hear their singing, in the jarring jangle of the fallen bauble, What you prohibit me say with words, I say in posing. This is a woman’s lot, a woman’s hell. Stop a while and listen, and you will hear, tis as I tell. Not just here but all around you, all around are broken pieces, all around are men and women, screwing up each others lives. Someday all the bits will meet, under the eye of judgement, of a healing God. What a lye! From the stinking corpse, of a wounded love, Burst tender blooms of anarchy. But I, shall not dig new air into these eruptions, even in hate, nor water them with tears. What, you don’t believe I cut your final swansong? I should have liked one last adieu, to watch you die upon a poisoned kiss. My critics say, my writing needs more guts and grit to bring about a lifelike death, to bits. So my dearest, rest in pieces . [comments] => 1 [counter] => 147 [topic] => 48 [informant] => supercreep [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => EmotionalPoetry )
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