Isn't it special?

Stuffed up in my nostrils so compactly that I felt any jarring motion to my head would let loose a torrent of briney phlegm from every orifice on my person. So there sat I, self-confident in my knowledge, yet silenced by physical jurisdiction, in the classroom. I passed over a Gerard Manley Hopkins talk because congestion so horrible Chaucer would've placed the item foremost in my portrait.

I apoligize for the Chaucer saturation, god knows it is not my intention to come off as self-indulgent and self-gratifying and self-serving.

eek woulde he pontificate
o'er wysdom disolate
wheile he, with o ey blynkynge
prais Jesu his owne thynkynge.
Cholera wasch his hewe
swich that he with flu
wasch a piety palgrame
wint. No thoughtes shame.

And that ends my boasting.

The night is all but killed and my damned roomate does beschrew me with his cooking and insipid music and dense burning smoke and fan's humming. Simultaneously. I swear if this savage had not from the pits of Africa been ripped, he would still be squatting in the Kenyan wilderness poking at an anthill with a pointy stick.

So in conclusion: Wasted classes, plafyul errant rhyminging, and a roommate who greats my cold with the stench of burnt goat meat stew.

It's not the best, and it's not good either...

The Sound of Silence

A snap. A voice pushes at the seal
Of his teeth, tight screwed with grit
And sweat forcing the enamel to peel
Like mango rinds, piece by piece, bit
until,

I see that in my mind, the words
curling like burning paper

No word tosses the tongue quite like cancer
The rough weaving of tongue and jaw
Parents to pain, remembrance, and laughter.
He's squirming out of water, she gulps
the air like gin. Together nothing.

coiling and twisting wilder brighter
blinding burning--degradation.

when nothing ash is left in a child god's hand,
He smears the soot under the fingernail.

Takes it with him. He has it forever.
Words are stupid, childish things--
Bones a dog will chew on for hours,
he will be dead long long long ago.

The Western Sands Taste Like Chicken

I like the even-ness of this exact point in time, 10:30 p.m. To set the stage for the eye-weary traveller in brief, the sun is long past setting and I would suspect halfway back to rising and my roommate (who is from Kenya) is speaking Kenyanese to another Kenyanite whilst I sit drumming furiously the rhythm of Dvorak's 3rd. I know the more popular selection is the 9th, but I sympathize with Mahler and his irrational fear of the number 9. I like facts that are esoteric and trivial as they make me appear more smarter than me am.

The Romantics lived barely into the Victorian period. Men and women who loved life and the world so much they obviously had no choice but to become hedonists. And what has the Western world had since then? A handful of skilled modern poets and a depressed housewife who sticks her head in the oven. And who has come out since the now nostaglic masters Yeats, Frost, Auden, and Eliot? Nothing. I am writing forth this blog as a chronicle of mourning for all the excellence in the world that is no longer there. To capture what was before MTV, before pong, before 30 second commercials between television shows. When men could write epic 9th symphonies and be famous long after death. Looking for the lost talents of dead generations.