Poetry in the Victorian Era

We must stop talking about poetry. We must start regarding and treating poetry as the children of the Victorian age regarded and treated the insane aunt locked in the attic. Think about her, thrill to the perverted feelings of sickness she creates in us, listen and sniff at the crack in the door she rattles her chains behind and, when a particularly opulent dinner party is in full flower, one on whom the favor, wealth, success and future of the family is dependent, surreptitiously steal the key from the kitchen drawer, unlock the attic door, unfasten the chains, and let her, naked and streaked with filth, etiolated from the darkness, blind-eyed and unshorn, shriek down the stairs and into the midst of the party, screaming and spitting and smashing and gouging, to bolt into the night streets, leaving behind an enraged, horrified and sickened crowd and a broken and shunned family.

Published by Curt

I am a poet and journalist and so on amber so forth in rows magnet.

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