Tuesday, June 29, 2010

a poem not about E.E. Cummings

Cummings wrote some wonderful stuff
about the prostitutes of France.
painting them remarkably deteriorated and
painfully beautiful;
the fragrance of nightly breath enough
to usher tears into existence.

so many,
I’ve painted and/or sketched words
about were this.
more we’ve made great who
were not, some
lent away greatness, now

never have I been a whole lover.
never have I known to give at such a level.
only that I have been the prostitute
in some sense of sense;
never the sexual admirer
that was E.E. Cummings.

 - Hoc Scripsi


  1. All right! I hate computers! I had just finished writing a comment, just clicked on the post button, and I received some error! ...

    What I was saying (though I have forgotten most of it!): 'usher tears into existence' - a perfect line! Eventually, to keep things hidden from others, to hide parts of ourselves behind masks in a desperate attempt to have (to save)something that is only ours...is anything but authentic...thus, the similarity with the pseudo-lover...

    Thank for finding me!

    PS I am sharing this with blog with my readers, hope that's all right!

  2. Thank you much! I would be honored for you to share this blog with your readers.


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