Toilets
by T.S. Eliot
Let us go then, to the john,
Where the toilet seat waits to be sat upon
Like a lover's lap perched upon ceramic;
Let us go, through doors that do not always lock,
Which means you ought to knock
Lest opening one reveal a soul within
Who'll shout, "Stay out! Did you not see my shin,
Framed within the gap twixt floor and stall?"
No, I did not see that at all.
That is not what I saw, at all.
To the stall the people come to go,
Reading an obscene graffito.
We have lingered in the chamber labeled "Men"
Till attendants proffer aftershave and mints
As we lather up our hands with soap, and rinse.
Skinny Domicile
by Emily Dickinson
I have a skinny Domicile—
Its Door is very narrow.
'Twill keep—I hope—the Reaper out—
His Scythe—and Bones—and Marrow.
Since Death is not a portly Chap,
The Entrance must be thin—
So—when my Final Moment comes—
He cannot wriggle in.
That's why I don't go out that much—
I can't fit through that Portal.
How dumb—to waste my Social Life
On Plans to be—immortal—
Here are the contents of the site, so far:
01.10.01
Holy Tango of Drama
“Dammit, Dave”
12.05.00
Volume 4
Basho, Angelou
09.14.00
Volume 3
Shakespeare, Thomas, H.D.
06.13.00
Volume 2
Blake, Nash, cummings
05.04.00
Volume 1
Eliot, Dickinson, Williams
No comments:
Post a Comment