UnPoetia:The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
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| Poetry for people who hate poetry |
[edit] The Poem
Let us go then, you and me
Into the Cartesian air
The limited domains of history lie
like a black, caustic drain
like the black, caustic drain
in my shower; clean it!
Like I clean my soul.
With stuff under the sink.
Windex doesn't work,
on shower drains...
Or the drains of human souls
Whatever those are.
And so I ask
With due recourse
Are the Rich waves of Euclidean planes
are as Dixie Cups are to me
useless only in their capacity for witholding liquid
from the docile domains of the floor?
and I, with my Dixie Cup in hand
dearly wish for more tea
because these things
only hold like a few ounces
And so I wait
for another cup
Oh Cousteau!
Doth loves vassal
act not like hatreds vessel?
Or something
Like the dreamiest of dreams
and the misteast of dreams
I do rhyme a word with itself
Probably ran out of ideas
Like I ran out of love
Yep, ran out of ideas
And so, again, she passes by
Out the window I see her fall
fall through the cold, dark sky
She probably fell from the balcony up above
Drunk off her ass, like always
Drunk off her ass, on love
And still, I extricate
from Vesuvian remains
the druggiest of my million thoughts
My words are the words of a poet
because I am writing poetry
Doth! What does doth mean?
Perhaps we'll never know.
Perhaps we'll not know
just as we do not know
Achille's shoe size
And so the lore of the ancient cartrographers
And the oceans of water
are somewhat similar
I guess
And this...is clear
Punctuation!...Doth!...
I don't even
know what the fuck I'm talking...about...anymore
...anymore...
Do I ask?
A bear attacked me once
Only that bear was 'Love'
And I was a bear.
And me and that bear
were like Romeo
with a time machine
going back in time with Juliet
to have a threesome with Cleopatra
on the banks of the river Styx
"Come Sail Away With Me" indeed
But still, the people around me are
like Romans, asking questions
like "Isn't that illegal?"
and "Have you seen a doctor about that?"
But I never go to meet him
Because perhaps we'll meet,
in the Hallowed Halls of Valhalla
or the rich domains of Elysium
And when I tell the inquiring Latinians this
they look at me,
like I'm strange
Doth! As my friend
my dearest and only friend
wander out of the drudgery of another daily
day, we try to foresee things
but we're really not good at foreseeing things
We're so much better at playing pool
I talk to this Maiden--
the fairest Maiden I've talked to today
and she recipricates, interlocation! Locution!
And yet
even I don't know what those words mean...
Maybe some day...
I'll punctuate properly--
...
Not yet--
....
["Nope"]
And then, when in the darkness of the night
under Luna's piquant lights
Epsilium and I
meet the Spirits of Netherworld
And the spirits of the world take me
and drown me
Not really, I just made that last part up.
The spirits and we,
Epsilium and me,
Told the Spirits of our Earthian declarations
and exculpations
and venerations
and adulations
and trepidations
And the Spirits, thoughtfully,
always thoughtfully,
Said, with a Martian indefatigability,
"Are you on crack?"
Am I on crack, indeed
Who's J. Alfred Prufrock anyway?
