e. e. Cummings Poem

Will i ever forget that precarious moment?

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    Will i ever forget that precarious moment?

    As i was standing on the third rail waiting for the next train to grind me into lifeless atoms various absurd thoughts slyly crept into my highly sexed mind.

    It seemed to me that i had first of all really made quite a mistake in being at all born,seeing that i was wifeless and only half awake,cursed with pimples,correctly dressed,cleanshaven above the nombril,and much to my astonishment much impressed by having once noticed(as an infantile phenomenon)George Washington almost incompletely surrounded by well-drawn icecakes beheld being too strong,in brief:an American,is you understand that i mean what i say i believe my most intimate friends would never have gathered.

     A collarbutton which had always not nothurt me not much and in the same place.

    Why according to tomorrow’s paper the proletariat will not rise yesterday.

    Inexpressible itchings to be photographed with Lord Rothermere playing with Lord Rothermere billiards very well by moonlight with Lord Rothermere.

    A crocodile eats a native,who in revenge beats it insensible with a banana,establishing meanwhile a religious cult based on consubstantial intangibility.

    Personne ne m’aime et j’ai mains froides

    His Royal Highness said “peek-a-boo” and thirty tame fleas left the prettily embroidered howdah immediately.

    Thumbprints of an angel named Frederick found on a lightning-rod,Boston,Mass.

    such were not the unhurried reflections to which my organ of imperception gave birth to which i should ordinarily have objected to which,considering the background,it is hardly surprising if anyone hardly should call exactly extraordinary. We refer,of course,to my position. A bachelor incapable of occupation,he had long suppressed the desire to suppress the suppressed desire of shall we say:Idleness,while meaning its opposite? Nothing could be clearer to all concerned than that i am not a policeman.

    Meanwhile the tea regressed.

    Kipling again H. G. Wells,and Anatole France shook hands again and yet again shook again hands again,the former coachman with a pipewrench of the again latter then opening a box of newly without exaggeration shot with some difficulty sardines. Mr. Wiggin took Wrs. Miggin’s harm in is,extinguishing the spittoon by a candle furnished by courtesy of the management on Thursdays,opposite which a church stood perfectly upright but not piano item:a watermelon causes indigestion to William Cullen Longfellow’s small negro son,Henry Wadsworth Bryant.

   By this time,however,the flight of crows have ceased. I withdrew my hands form the tennisracket. All was over. One brief convulsive octopus,and then our hero folded his umbrella.

   It seemed too beautiful.

   Let us perhaps excuse me if i repeat himself:these,or nearly these,were the not unpainful thoughts which occupied the subject of our attention;to speak even less objectively,i was horribly scared i would actually fall off the rail before the really train after all arrived. If i should have made this perfectly clear,it entirely would have been not my fault.

voices to voices,lip to lip
poets yeggs and thirsties


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