Ode To Gregory
I have my rhetoric.
My quick tongue
And you have your old intelligence.
For there is no substance
but my own wit.
I cast you
to your birth -
from the depths
a thousand Arian dreams
of icy madness
the in-concrete darkness
Oh, that I was born
from my mother's womb.
smash his skull in.
Eat Raw death
from my belly
uh, drink my fever...
a liter of boiled blood.
A dog that will
and be beaten
by his master
into the night -
And for this
my quick wit
Yes, I am not agreeable
It is this dreadful
this gnarled face,
- - -
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Comments about this poem (Ode To Gregory by Scott Paxton )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
(August 19, 1902 – May 19, 1971)
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