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Exquisite Corpse poem, arranged
humanity i love you
when the world is puddle-wonderful
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
Coming from your country, fill me with care. That scent,
From air to air, lavish, at Autumn's coronation
A starry wimple on thy head, a marmot in your hand
And all that's best of dark and bright.
and in my wild heart what did I most wish to happen to me
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
Sometimes find some VIOLET FUNGI
One time in Alexandria, in wicked Alexandria...
Said the calico cat as he licked his chops,
"The children from her arm they gonne arace."
Would that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that face.
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
As if the choice were mine to make
And not one will know of the war...
And, Little Sin, pray God to die,
The moth survives you, and are ye more just?
Is late better than never?
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
Do you ever get the feeling that the story's too damn real and in the present tense?
Chuck Melville's bellybutton.
Thank you to the contributors (in order of lines):
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paka, claudia_, rowyn, genesis_w, redbird, sythyry, perlandria, kibbles, mister_wolf, chipuni, browngirl, ahuriko, paganmommy, kraayn, red_queen, aprivatefox, secanth, daveqat, rainstorm13, ottomaton, melskunk, errorist, xydexx.
when the world is puddle-wonderful
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
Coming from your country, fill me with care. That scent,
From air to air, lavish, at Autumn's coronation
A starry wimple on thy head, a marmot in your hand
And all that's best of dark and bright.
and in my wild heart what did I most wish to happen to me
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
Sometimes find some VIOLET FUNGI
One time in Alexandria, in wicked Alexandria...
Said the calico cat as he licked his chops,
"The children from her arm they gonne arace."
Would that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that face.
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
As if the choice were mine to make
And not one will know of the war...
And, Little Sin, pray God to die,
The moth survives you, and are ye more just?
Is late better than never?
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
Do you ever get the feeling that the story's too damn real and in the present tense?
Chuck Melville's bellybutton.
Thank you to the contributors (in order of lines):
paka, claudia_, rowyn, genesis_w, redbird, sythyry, perlandria, kibbles, mister_wolf, chipuni, browngirl, ahuriko, paganmommy, kraayn, red_queen, aprivatefox, secanth, daveqat, rainstorm13, ottomaton, melskunk, errorist, xydexx.
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My line isn't there.
Still, it is a beautiful poem.
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