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(+) Yeah! (+)

I had a cat named Snowball.

She died, she died.

Mom said she was sleeping.

She lied, she lied.

Why oh why is my cat dead?

Couldnt that Chrysler have hit me instead?
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I eat the booty

Poem," by Frank O'Hara

Wouldn't it be funny
if The Finger had designed us
to shit just once a week?

all week long we'd get fatter
and fatter and then on Sunday morning
while everyone's in church

ploop!

(1959)
---

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased,
And fevers into false creation; where,
Where are the forms the sculptors soul has seized?
In him alone. Can nature show so fair?
Where are the charms and virtues which we dare
Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men,
The unreached paradise of our despair,
Which over-informs the pencil and the pen,
And overpowers the page where it would bloom again.

Who loves, raves its youths frenzy But the cure
Is bitterer still; as charm by charm unwinds
Which robed our idols, and we see too sure
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the minds
Ideal shape of such; yet still it binds
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on,
Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds;
The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun,
Seems ever near the prize Wealthiest when most undone.

We wither from our youth, we gasp away
Sick, sick; unfound the boon, unslaked the thirst,
Though to the last, in verge of our decay,
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first
But all too late, so we are doubly cursed.
Love, fame, ambition, avarice Its the same
Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst
For all are meteors with a different name,
And death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame.

Few None find what they love or could have loved:
Though accident, blind contact, and the strong
Necessity of loving, have removed
Antipathies But to recur, before long,
Envenomed with irrevocable wrong;
And circumstance, that unspiritual god,
And miscreator, makes and helps along
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod,
Whose touch turns hope to dust The dust we all have trod.

Our life is a false nature Its not in
The harmony of things, this hard decree,
This ineradicable taint of sin,
This boundless Upas, this all-blasting tree,
Whose root is Earth, whose leaves and branches be
The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew
Disease, death, bondage, all the woes we see
And worse, the woes we see not Which throb through
The immedicable soul, with heartaches ever new.

- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (Fourth Canto, CXXII-CXXVI), Lord Byron

Will you call that vain, which seeks
The latent sparks of virtue to evolve,
Or animate anew to high resolve,
The drooping fervor of our weary souls?
What but a game have mortal works ever been,
Since Phoebus first his weary wheels did urge?
And is not truth, no less than falsehood, vain?
And yet, with pleasing phantoms, fleeting shows,
Nature herself to our relief has come;
And custom, aiding nature, still must strive
These strong illusions, to revive;
Or else all thirst for noble deeds is gone,
Is lost in sloth, and blind oblivion.

- (part of) To a Victor in the Game of Pallone, Giacomo Leopardi
---

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Unknown titled poem by Mr. Paul Neil Milne Johnstone of Redbridge, Essex

The dead swans lay in the stagnant pool.
They lay. They rotted. They turned
Around occasionally.
Bits of flesh dropped off them from
Time to time.
And sank into the pool's mire.
They also smelt a great deal.
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