a watermelon splits in swelter
and splashes withered faces
smacking day’s rind
lipping desiccated desire
and splashes withered faces
smacking day’s rind
lipping desiccated desire
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AuthorI'm a twenty-something student of English literature and philosophy. When not occupied with one too many essays, I (try to) write fiction and poetry. I adore Virginia Woolf, am permanently inhabited by T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land, and feast on the works of Donne and Milton. I am, however, most entranced by the works of the great Romantic poets: Blake, Shelley, Coleridge, Keats. Immersed in such an illustrious tradition, I wonder each time I write how words I string together could say anything that has not been said better before. Still the inexorable drive to partake in this vast universe of word sends me scrawling, typing, tossing fragile scribbles into a plenitudinous void. And when not reading or writing, I may be found playing piano or taking a long walk. A final word: Beethoven renders all words void. Archives
March 2016
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