pity this busy monster,manunkind, not. Progress is a comfortable disease: your victum(death and life safely beyond) plays with the bigness of his littleness -electrons deify one razorblade into a mountainrange;lenses extend unwish through curving wherewhen until unwish returns on its unself. A world of made is not a world of born-pity poor flesh and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this fine specimen of hypermagical ultraomnipotence. We doctors know a hopeless case if-listen:there's a hell of a good universe next door;let's go - e. e. cummings
Added: 19 Aug 2001 | Last Read: 1 Oct 2016 3:06 AM | Viewed: 24783 times
A PoetryNotes™ eBook is available for this poem for delivery within 24 hours, and usually available within minutes during normal business hours.
ON SALE - only
For more information...