Woolf in poverty

That is all fine, a gold bar and sister
of Shakespeare dead in a mire or shot.
What lady was born in cat-piss, tell me this.
Lady or not, what heiress was told to rot
in the sins told of her zoo, to herself.
Her books lie quiet on her shelf
while mine dissolve with cats’ atoms.
Virginia had paused at five or so dots,
according to her muse laid lazy,
buy I pause for bills I inherited
instead of the pounds—her lovely Adam
did surely abuse her on her grassy lounge.
She spoke of her sex without—
she did not shiver in the lamp of her spine
as if—as if—silence ate her mouth—


~ by Jeremy on December 17, 2012.

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