I hate poems about regret. Even when they are composed so well. Especially when they're composed so well, like this one. You see, this is crafted so cleverly that it makes everything feel too real. This one cleaves. It too easily seduces the reader into the briefest reveries where the air is balmy, the light is golden, the heart is dancing, the soul almost pours out like perperation on the forehead. It feels too much like a dream, and I cannot trust a dream for it dashes away as soon as I open my eyes. Yet, this poem is always going to be there. Every time I read it, and it will be many times, I will come to the end and not wake up. Because I'm already awake and the regret is real. I really hate poems about regret.
Yes, and Tabby's painting which stops me and pulls my thoughts into that lower section of darker strokes that almost coalesce into memory. A beautiful piece!
I apologize. There is no such word as "perperation". Although, if it doesn't actually already exist, I claim title to its coinage. From this day forward, with Charles M Pepiton as witness, the word "perperation" refers to that occasion when you intended to type "perspiration" and didn't go back to spell-check the comment. It has a universal quality to it. How's this: "I have always intended to tell Charles M Pepiton that I applaud his decision of many years ago in directing The Scent of a Thousand Rains by Damon Falke (et al.) something something elegant, something something something emotional uh, something sincere and actually i'm finding it's a very specific term, perperation, and has no universal use whatsoever.
I hate poems about regret. Even when they are composed so well. Especially when they're composed so well, like this one. You see, this is crafted so cleverly that it makes everything feel too real. This one cleaves. It too easily seduces the reader into the briefest reveries where the air is balmy, the light is golden, the heart is dancing, the soul almost pours out like perperation on the forehead. It feels too much like a dream, and I cannot trust a dream for it dashes away as soon as I open my eyes. Yet, this poem is always going to be there. Every time I read it, and it will be many times, I will come to the end and not wake up. Because I'm already awake and the regret is real. I really hate poems about regret.
I hate that when it happens. just the genius of Damon.
Yes, and Tabby's painting which stops me and pulls my thoughts into that lower section of darker strokes that almost coalesce into memory. A beautiful piece!
thanks Charlie!
Truly, a perfect pairing in the Juke Gallery
thx ever so much, Anthony
I apologize. There is no such word as "perperation". Although, if it doesn't actually already exist, I claim title to its coinage. From this day forward, with Charles M Pepiton as witness, the word "perperation" refers to that occasion when you intended to type "perspiration" and didn't go back to spell-check the comment. It has a universal quality to it. How's this: "I have always intended to tell Charles M Pepiton that I applaud his decision of many years ago in directing The Scent of a Thousand Rains by Damon Falke (et al.) something something elegant, something something something emotional uh, something sincere and actually i'm finding it's a very specific term, perperation, and has no universal use whatsoever.
I hereby witness both Damon Falke's brilliant poem, and Anthony Head's perspicacious creation of perperation on this day.
We are now Juke Brothers.