Tuesday, January 31, 2006

CANTO 37 by David Bromige and Rychard Denner

And his death, quaint.

"I like quaint.

I like to cultivate quaint, to have quaint hanging round my ardent gate, there is nothing like quaint. I look at her, and I think "quaint," and when this happens, I am attracted. Metaphorically speaking. Eating quaint for breakfast, lunch and dinner. 

 Intellectually, penetrating quaint. 

I want to know quaint back to front and upside down and inside out, and I have the equipment for the task, I'm told. 

Quaint is a spring day in the rain 

in England's Cotswold Hills, 

    by the bait-house, beside the marsh, at eleven standing beside

her sister who is sixteen 

           inches taller, and thinking you'd better not go to bed with her. 

           Quaint is not merely decorative it fills with meaning & some of it sticks. If I get up in the morning, it's thanks to
quaint. I can't recommend quaint highly enough.
. . . more

At Big Bridge 11


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