rejectomorph (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rejectomorph) wrote2003-09-02 06:04 am
rejectomorph) wrote2003-09-02 06:04 am
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What lies asleep, tousling beds in all these stifled rooms? What dreams displace the town's quotidian routine? Mayhem, madness, wild debauchery, inchoate desires and fears made manifest in bleeding urns, coupling dogs, faceless figures, gaping doors of deserted buildings, disembodied whispers stirring dust motes down corridors sunlit by no more than firing synapses? The disordered night of the mind is a sea boiling with serpents. The waking see the silent town overlain by ordered, slow changing constellations. As much a part of the world of dream as of the starlit woods that wrap it 'round, these ordered streets and houses are grown of those passions and desires that lurk, envenomed and coiled, within the pulsing brain. Bound to earth by gravity, trapped in time, the town yet sways like a balloon, tethered by the thinnest line to an unsteady hand.
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And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land all full of dust.
Little Edgar Allen loved that rascal Quoth.
and brought him strings and sealing wax and the eyeballs of a sloth.
Oh, Quoth, the magic raven lived on a bust
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land all full of dust.
Quoth, the magic raven lived on a bust
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land all full of dust.
Together they would travel on a boat with evil things
Edgar kept a lookout perched on Quoth's gigantic wings.
Noble kings and princes would bow when'er they came,
Pirate ships would lower their flags when Quoth cawed out his name.
Oh, Quoth, the magic raven lived on a bust
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land all full of dust.
Quoth, the magic raven lived on a bust
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land all full of dust.
A raven lives on corpses but not so little boys
midnight wings and evil things make way for other toys.
One gray night it happened, Edgar Allen came no more
And Quoth that mighty raven, he blamed that bitch Lenore.
His head was bent in sorrow, black feathers fell like rain,
Quoth no longer went to play along the dreary lane.
Without his life-long friend, Quoth could not eat brains,
So Quoth that mighty raven sadly dug inside a grave.
Oh, Quoth, the magic raven lived on a bust
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land all full of dust.
Quoth, the magic raven lived on a bust
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land all full of dust.
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HAHAHA!
I'll bet that Annabel Lee is laughing
In her sepulcher there by the sea.
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