Pessoa ashamed of his pond

I will become, past my twentieth year,
a big-nosed drunk because I was a big-nosed
child, and my forehead was big,
and is simple; my Saxon tongue learns
no good physiognomy, my epics broil
in the simplicity of a single brain
which longs to marry. What buzz this
that speaks to no one in monosyllables
how Pessoa did to his people?,
& himselves, scorned on his island
that yet had land he couldn’t beach.
The misery of selves is old at least
as a century, and so younger for it,
say my sour scholars poor in pocket
and older for it, vulgar how Pessoa was,
how prophets and the English were
cruising dust that becomes us rather handsomely.

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~ by Jeremy on May 14, 2013.

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