an abandoned chest of roistering literature for the drunk and rampant reader.
I’ll tell you how the sun rose, —
A ribbon at a time.
The steeples swam in amethyst,
The news like squirrels ran.
The hills untied their bonnets,
The bobolinks begun.
Then I said softly to myself,
“That must have been the sun!”
* * *
But how he set, I know not.
There seemed a purple stile
Which little yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while
Till when they reached the other side,
A dominie in gray
Put gently up the evening bars,
And led the flock away.
—as in, pre-flutter, that kingdom of semi-purpleness— should I
say dome of— that area of anti-limp, lawless, drunk on your
fingering, unfingering— that omnivore, oh, eating now your—
even your branches, iceless, anti frozen, gazelle flying toward the
twin kingdoms of your cheekness (more at “flying buttress”),
nearly periwinkling now— that perpetrator of the semi-grunt,
grunt, instigator of the groanful demi-flood of— flutter, flutter,
post-flutter— gorge of neomauve, rich canal of sunsetish plush,
now unguardedly sub-fuschia; that private brandied eyelash
batting at you in its brashest postcool queenness, plump and
succulent as a plum—
—-The Best American Erotic Poems: From 1800 to the Present, 2008
drunken library 