I got somewhere close to this far on it a while ago & then stopped. This is a reconstruction of the poem from memory, because I have it scribble-jotted somewhere and have no idea which notebook it's in now, or where that notebook is, exactly. But a facebook friend who always posts good stuff happened to link to an article that dredged up, if not the poem proper or entire, at least the impulse to do so. What impulse is that, pray tell? A quick examination of the labels will make all clear, I wot.
On my ill-advised trip
into the City,
I saw the
Tall Doll torn down;
to speak of her abuse
is to cast aside poesis.
Aside like her long grey gown
was cast,
yanked askance,
sculpted haunch and rather
too much leg for my comfort.
Torch tossed, tiara trailing
from stone hair flown wild.
No pain, just
Gallic Stoic
patience writ plain
on the flatcut planes
of a gaze sharp-angled.
Gaze intent, distance-bent,
awaiting just the next
hammerfall;
the Tall Doll
My own Dying Gaul
distressed, disrobed, dismantled;
after all the high-flown
talk, her tormentors' mob
in thrall to an ego and a mouth.
Well, there's more, if I ever find my notebook again. I'm glad that I felt prompted, somehow, to spew that out into the blogosphere. Maybe it'll do something now.
On my ill-advised trip
into the City, I saw the
Tall Doll torn down;
to speak of her abuse
is to cast aside poesis.
Aside like her long grey gown
was cast,
yanked askance,
sculpted haunch and rather
too much leg for my comfort.
Torch tossed, tiara trailing
from stone hair flown wild.
No pain, just
Gallic Stoic
patience writ plain
on the flatcut planes
of a gaze sharp-angled.
Gaze intent, distance-bent,
awaiting just the next
hammerfall;
the Tall Doll
My own Dying Gaul
distressed, disrobed, dismantled;
after all the high-flown
talk, her tormentors' mob
in thrall to an ego and a mouth.
Well, there's more, if I ever find my notebook again. I'm glad that I felt prompted, somehow, to spew that out into the blogosphere. Maybe it'll do something now.
