#operatic suffering

[spooksbyme]

From Homage To Sextus Propertius - V (Ezra Pound)

Yet you ask on what account I write so many love-lyrics And whence this soft book comes into my mouth. Neither Calliope nor Apollo sung these things into my ear, My genius is no more than a girl. If she with ivory fingers drive a tune through the lyre, We look at the process. How easy the moving fingers; if hair is mussed on her forehead, If she goes in a gleam of Cos, in a slither of dyed stuff, There is a volume in the matter; if her eyelids sink into sleep, There are new jobs for the author; And if she plays with me with her shirt off, We shall construct many Iliads. And whatever she does or says We shall spin long yarns out of nothing.

[spooksbyme]

I want. I want. I want. What I want is. I want. I'd like. I don't want. I don't want it. I want you. I don't want. What I really want is. I want, and I'd really like. I'd like, and I want you. I want you.

to be finished with grading. to be thinner. to be rich. boring and banal.what many people want, clearly. to feel no jealousy. to feel jealous. This feeling of wanting to punch your face in--.to be worried when you read this. No, no--that. to make giant lima beans with stewed tomatoes and pesto. to rip off all my skin and roll around on the carpet, to be attacked by dogs, or wild boar. to be gored--just a little--by an animal with horns, to see how brave I am. to know that I am noble and tragic and handsome.