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Granted every poet “constantly aspires
towards the condition of music, ” that sphere
of perfection which Walter Pater declares
the other arts must humble themselves before:
so why shouldn’t I kneel by the podium
and beg the conductor to leave her baton
propped upon my proselyte head like a sword
knighting me until I can hardly rise from
that ideal sill: one could have no grail beyond
that grace; could never long for that pated wand
to guide our own quest: its shadow bids us toward
the stead path still, sticking out over the brow
like some penile spitcurl: so why not die there
while maestro Mater makes his lowest bow?
So playful and fun to read! !
Hysterical! I love it!