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POETOGENESIS


 
No, Holmes, I regret to inform you

That the prescription was for

Cortisone, not courtesans;

And the instructions specified quite

Clearly "fever-reducing rest," though you

Profess my clear Spencerian hand

To be so blurred as to mryygghisd and frounth.

I would look to your syringe for

The source of your visions and

Voices, and am not overly enthralled

By your summons, couched as it is in

Such phrases as "The hunt is now,

While the game's abed."
 
 

As to your immanent departure for

"The fleshports of the continent,

In which I mean to stew until I have

Absorbed sufficient juices to withstand

Another onslaught of sanity,"

I can only urge upon you a less

Rudderbound hidelessness and greater

Care for the effortean squiggles just

Beneath the stamp you have glaubrously

Asked me to lick and affix in the STRIATIONS

So kindredly wedded to the heathen surface

Of this great Jungle (Our Mother's lair) hidden

In the lustrous fibers of the all-encompassing

Envelope of the Heavens that you shall

Host-paste from my herewith be dispatched soonest.
 
 

The porters are struggling to pack me,

But I shall be with you anon.
 
 

Ever your Obd't Cervantes

Watson
 
 
 

- David W. Mitchell
 

to David   /  to Moongate

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