Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) "Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no
Inner Resources." I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as Achilles,
who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
3 comments:
reading this in haste while eating (cheese, salami, taralli) my mind leaps where it will and marvels that ever Thierry Henry interested you sufficiently that now he has the power to bore, and I wonder whether, in addition to his gripes and petulance, he has injured his achilles tendon again?
One gold star.
you must by now be familiar with the sad mundanity of my mind
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