Between Two Wars
Remember that breakfast one November —
Cold black grapes smelling faintly
Of the cork they were packed in,
Hard rolls with hot, white flesh,
And thick, honey sweetened chocolate?
And the parties at night; the gin and the tangos?
The torn hair nets, the lost cuff links?
Where have they all gone to,
The beautiful girls, the abandoned hours?
They said we were lost, mad and immoral,
And interfered with the plans of management.
And today, millions and millions, shut alive
In the coffins of circumstance,
Beat on the buried lids,
Huddle in the cellars of ruins, and quarrel
Over their own fragmented flesh.
In 1780, at age twenty-eight, Morris’s left leg was shattered and replaced with a wooden pegleg. Reportedly, he liked to dance, and he managed to dance well on his wooden leg. Morris’ public account for the loss of his leg was that it happened in a carriage accident, but there is evidence that this story was a false, concocted to cover for a dalliance with a woman, during which he jumped from a window to escape a jealous husband.
William Carlos Williams
If I when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,—
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
“I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!”
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
again the yellow drawn shades,—
Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?
“Life is just a bunch of gaps between my blistering solos.”
Jón Páll Sigmarsson
“There is no point in being alive if you cannot do the deadlift.”
Wheels of the Burger King Kids Club