Some theatre each day keeps the doctor away…

Sonnet 8

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Our burdens lodge in chest, not shoulders broad;
They settle through the vital cavities;
There, where life is worked ’til, done, it drops the sword
And, pommel ground, imbibes necessities.
One shakes the head, or fidgets unreflex,
Thinks too on topics not so apropos:
For dwelling cedes to tight eternal vex,
And void, unvoided, solid soul in tow.
Oh God, give break from mem’ry’s cataracts,
That blacken up the mind with muddied pane;
Let years detint those splotches and their tracks:
Wipe bright, set clean, and polish with eye’s rain.
There’s time in death for plagues and long regret,
So give us now, in now, while life’s still wet.

Finished America tonight, or, as it probably should be known, Sisyphus Goes Walkabout.  Shame about the gaps in the narrative, but thankfully with a narrative atmosphere like Kafka’s it doesn’t affect things as much as it might otherwise.

And…just a tad wrong about the stoker.  But I wouldn’t want to be a person afraid to be wrong, nor would I want to be a writer like that either, methinks.

I shall read Mockingjay next, by Suzanne Collins.  Well, my bookmark is in the book, but I haven’t started it yet.  And I am very fickle.  It was either that or Sense and Sensibility, but I think I’ll get Mockingjay out of the way first.


Written by epistemysics

November 29, 2013 at 1:17 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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