Poesy
judging its worth, and interpreting its meaning,
poetry must rely upon its natural instincts,
like the skunk who lifts its bushy tail,
spraying its enemies ---
poetry must be immoral and licentious.
Strictly observed, making note
of its four legs, the art of language wild,
a spotted horned creature with strange eyes.
Any particular movement
draws near the slightest meaning
and by tiniest revelation,
ends its short beastly life.
Ernest Slyman
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"All around the hours run swift
their foolish errands."
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