https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/section-656-up-for-parole en 2005-2012 shakespearesmonekys@gmail.com 42.65593 -71.33391 Tue, 09 Jun 2026 16:23:22 GMT yacs http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss 70 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/article-10306-faunication https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/article-10306-faunication Sideways look, I don't believe, she says, you know -- What's your favourite by Rimbaud? Ah, say I, the best of him was his full stop.  I cannot quote his pages, though I've read them all.  I don't speak French, you understand, but he -- debauched, a dreadful man -- he spoke my tongue, and spoke it well. He's gone to Hell, she says, and I -- well, I just sigh.  It's Hell he left.  Full stop, he wrote.  (Enough of this, this pleasure dome, I'm done with poems.) How brave he was -- depraved and vile -- while I just sit and dread the hour when cowardice alone will force my own full stop.  Sideways look, Well, I can quote each word he wrote. I pity her.  She knows the lines but never learned to join the dots. ... more Leanne Hanson Up For Parole Fri, 27 Nov 2009 00:08:02 GMT /section-656-up-for-parole#comments 1 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/comments/post.php/article/10306 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/comments/feed.php/article/10306 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/links/trackback.php?anchor=article%3A10306 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/article-9350-helen https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/article-9350-helen Revised 23/08/08 Leanne Up For Parole Sat, 11 Jul 2009 07:17:04 GMT /section-656-up-for-parole#comments 11 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/comments/post.php/article/9350 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/comments/feed.php/article/9350 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/links/trackback.php?anchor=article%3A9350 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/article-10305-to-wilde https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/article-10305-to-wilde They piss on your grave, these anti-aesthetes, for whom beauty is found in glorifying the harsh and jar jangling angled wastelands, small i overdone, like dodo eggs in Alighierian imaginings. You would pat their heads, poor pretentious fools, and send them back to school to learn that a nymph is not simply a stroke of a pen, but a well – she will tell a thousand dreams to Scheherezade, whom they would suffocate. In Pere Lachaise, you are languid, as Morrison gathers frogs to his bosom, lizards having long since shed their skin, singing scales against Chopin’s Polonaise or Amazing Grace with equal facility, in disregard for the breathless. You keep fine company, but your bones are not your own, they have long gone – rejecting the prosaic earth, they calcified the air, where sunlight hid in waterfalls of thought and Thalia sought to flambé sombre soldiers in their own affected arts. In the corner of a promise you stow your reflection; shadows spring fully suckled to virgin pages. Shattered tablets lie forbidding in closed chambers, beneath the sleeping Endymion; bring us Arcady, where beauty is untrodden. Bring us clowns, whose hearts may not be broken. ... more Leanne Hanson Up For Parole Wed, 26 Nov 2008 02:23:57 GMT /section-656-up-for-parole#comments 0 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/comments/post.php/article/10305 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/comments/feed.php/article/10305 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/links/trackback.php?anchor=article%3A10305 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/article-10304-automontage https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/article-10304-automontage Somewhere under yesterday your happiness was killing me; I heard Jimi Hendrix play Beethoven’s second symphony on mandolin with Morrissey, whose aria was heavenly. Someone threw a dead bouquet, a colander of Beaujolais; the trappings of the bourgeoisie all locked up with a minor key. Left of yellow disarray, you wandered into Rick’s café and ordered from the cold buffet, then washed your feet in Sencha tea, your Buddha belly on display in corpulent discourtesy. Folded into leased esprit, I was decreased and stole away; and fallen into liberty, I made it over yesterday. Leanne Hanson Up For Parole Wed, 26 Nov 2008 02:22:48 GMT /section-656-up-for-parole#comments 0 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/comments/post.php/article/10304 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/comments/feed.php/article/10304 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/links/trackback.php?anchor=article%3A10304 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/article-10303-inheritance https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/article-10303-inheritance We are the wastrel heirs of Knowledge. Poor Sophia, she rode the currents of dark and built her light, a monstrous mound from which nothing could be removed. Today, she lies dead at our feet, her body whole – only her heart is gone. So we, her children’s children, plunge fingers into that pile, that has frightened us for so long, and it sticks to our hands, trying to seep through the skin. As one we draw back. This is not meant for hands as pure as ours. Someone – tidemarked elbows showing how deep he had thrust – mentions a market. “People will pay for this,” he tells us, “They will not know how little it is worth.” We cannot shift it whole – how heavy it is! – so I, the bravest fool, carry samples beneath my tongue. To bright lights and tin noise, our chosen home, we trip. God watches from his xenon cross, blinking sleepily as we play. The house does not know the coin we carry; no credit is extended, no back alley bargains struck. We turn and he is there. Ragged beggar-man with hungry eyes, “I will dice for it,” he says. “I have the means.” He shows us deeds to nations, bank drafts and patent papers, mining rights, charts and charters and crocks full of gold. Beneath my tongue, the taste grows bitter. “No dice,” says Elbows (why have I not seen him before?) “We trade.” In slickest style, the bargaining begins and when we wake, back in Her house, the pile is gone; we are left with an old coat and papers full of power. Here is the world, to rest in our palms; Elbows wears a Gucci crown. And I? I want nothing but to taste that bitterness again. ... more Leanne Hanson Up For Parole Wed, 26 Nov 2008 02:21:08 GMT /section-656-up-for-parole#comments 0 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/comments/post.php/article/10303 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/comments/feed.php/article/10303 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/links/trackback.php?anchor=article%3A10303 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/article-9120-kaolin-baths https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/article-9120-kaolin-baths Revision 9/7/08 No longer green, today the jade spreads faded suppositions through a future mewling extra cream in streams that once knew lemonade. One yes and then the nos rush in, a dynasty bred just for height, a kite with tails of docking line as finest China coats the skin. He seeks, he seeds, he smooths his way; decay is dancing on his string, a tincture bleeding salt and oil to spoil the surface of the clay. But wheels will turn, though weary feet don't meet the ground the way they should -- we stood where God was greener still and willows bent beneath the heat. ... more Leanne Up For Parole Wed, 26 Nov 2008 02:15:25 GMT /section-656-up-for-parole#comments 20 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/comments/post.php/article/9120 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/comments/feed.php/article/9120 https://dev.shakespearesmonkeys.com/links/trackback.php?anchor=article%3A9120