Well, okay, everyone's been getting on my back about not updating, especially with the other weird and wonderful events that happened to me in Europe... am still too lazy to actually relate one of them; will go on forgetting names at this rate.
Anyway, just to get back into the habit today, a poem from the great W.H. Auden retrospective anthology I bought myself by returning my sister's Christmas present to Kinokuniya with an 8-day-old receipt.
Postscript to "Birth of Architecture"
Some thirty inches from my nose
The frontier of my Person goes,
And all the untilled air between
Is private pagus or demesne.
Stranger, unless with bedroom eyes
I beckon you to fraternise,
Beware of rudely crossing it:
I have no gun, but I can spit.
Delightful English reserve with just a skipping step of naughtiness in the way it suggests cruising. Dammit, I want to be so much better a writer than I am now.
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