Poem – Drowning in bed linen

This poem is correlative of randomly paired Shakespeare Sonnets 17, 43, with a dash of Kanye

A museum, a moiety, the still be praised by eyes and gaze back, into each other,

Endless bits bouncing back and forth. In quorum, for all to see,  an unguent

Upon the sea cupping its bright eyes

Blind by day and yon scattered seeds at night.

True sounds deep upon the bark.

Bound souls conveyed across the surface,

Unknown from above as by below.

It points to where we go, with love,

Outgassing fromage to convey the eternal parsemage,

To another impassé, a rondolet,

a shore far de fait, a du fait

For a bone a petit in the flooded sandbox.

A wet rag for a sly fox, a parachuting xymox

Sinks as Excalibur is raised,

Yet Athena grinds no maize

Upon the stone, the millet goes green

As rotten tomes, dem bananas again, soft scimitars in paupers rusted beams intend

To balance adonoi on the fours.

But her hand to hilt has what it knows.

The sight in quarters cartouche so uncouth

Barley made my bed and poverty spread it’s sail beneath the twain,

I can but  mansplain mainly upon the gain.

But we still spin like helicopters from pine cones, down in the earth shaking and quaking from the lindy hops’ insane campaign.

They dance on the air now, amused by kites.

[Pie thrown onto empty stage almost in spotlights]







Sonnet 17

Who will believe my verse in time to come
If it were fill’d with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes 
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say, ‘This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne’er touch’d earthly faces.’
So should my papers, yellow’d with their age,
Be scorn’d, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term’d a poet’s rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice,—in it and in my rime

Sonnet 43

When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected;
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And, darkly bright, are bright in dark directed.
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,
How would thy shadow’s form form happy show
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so?
How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made
By looking on thee in the living day,
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!
All days are nights to see till I see thee,
And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

Peter O’Toole memorized the Sonnets. Read them with his voice.



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