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One day my soul trailed behind my body
Hovered above, and
Being silent
In secret observed-
Flushed face, panting breaths,
Beneath sweat dampened hand
And glittering, feverish eyes
Are all the vices of the world
And all the virtues, too.

Alas! The soul cried
Covering his eyes
Pale and shuddering
Alas! Such sin.

Being body, flesh heeded him not
Substance to solidarity touched-
Nib's inky lust for trembling smoothness
She was warmer than soul
And lighter in burdens;
She had kicked free of the soul
In paroxyms of lurid ecstasy
And made herself, God.







------
The conscious shape reality.


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Comments

The following comments are for "We Call It Vice"
by Furius

Becoming God
Oddly, I must say repetition of "soul" didn't bother me at all. This is difficult to describe, but because the subject is a kind of religious one (though treated ironically) I think you can more than get away with it. I think this is because of the archaic patterns of KJV, preachers and Victorian spiritual poetry.

What bothered me is your conclusion. I didn't feel you'd earned it through the working of this poem. And so the final line fell, plop, heavy as lead or a failed punchline.

That's not to say I don't think you've created something interesting here. I like the rest of the entry. I simply wish you'd finished it in a less heavy-handed manner.

( Posted by: hazelfaern [Member] On: April 1, 2004 )





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