Nov 132013
 
Look here, oyster, there is only
The oily thisness of confabulation,
The thin verities of antique fabliaux.

All that wintriest widows conceive
Comes, at clattering last, to pass.
The ugliest dog bites himself in sleep.

The surpassing pain of paradise, pique
Of profoundest pierrots and philosophes,
Pricks Parsifal and his weeping grail.

Come, come, my oily ocean rock,
Split wide, lug up from your limpid guts,
One tear-bitter pill of pearl.

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