STIFLING LETHARGY; I CHOKE ON IT

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by vangohs

by vangohs

in mimics of cummings i wonder if

structure pleasures in gentle murder, relishing in

snarls at whitman as she perfumes her lurking hands with the blood of spontaneity.

i wonder if she massacres whim 'til ennui overruns, then basks gleefully in its horrifying
immensity

( and surmises my macabre intuition that she does so unabashedly, with a drink from the chalice of convention,

toasting, to monotony! )

♠

any interpretations?