The bohemian glass on the
_étagère_
is no longer there.
Imagists
The life that was his choosing, lonely, urgent, goaded
by a hope, all gone. A weary man in a ruined laboratory, that was his
story. Boom! Gloom and ignorance, and the jig of drunken brutes. Diseases
like snakes crawling over the earth, leaving trails of slime. Wails from
people burying their dead. Through the window he can see the rocking
steeple. A ball of fire falls on the lead of the roof, and the sky tears
apart on a spike of flame. Up the spire, behind the lacings of stone,
zig-zagging in and out of the carved tracings, squirms the fire. It spouts
like yellow wheat from the gargoyles, coils round the head of Saint John,
and aureoles him in light. It leaps into the night and hisses against the
rain. The Cathedral is a burning stain on the white, wet night.
Boom! The Cathedral is a torch, and the houses next to it begin to scorch.
Boom!
The bohemian glass on the _étagère_ is no longer there. Boom! A
stalk of flame sways against the red damask curtains. The old lady cannot
walk. She watches the creeping stalk and counts. Boom! --Boom! --Boom!
The poet rushes into the street, and the rain wraps him in a sheet of
silver. But it is threaded with gold and powdered with scarlet beads. The
city burns. Quivering, spearing, thrusting, lapping, streaming, run the
flames. Over roofs, and walls, and shops, and stalls. Smearing its gold on
the sky the fire dances, lances itself through the doors, and lisps and
chuckles along the floors.
The child wakes again and screams at the yellow petalled flower flickering
at the window. The little red lips of flame creep along the ceiling beams.
by a hope, all gone. A weary man in a ruined laboratory, that was his
story. Boom! Gloom and ignorance, and the jig of drunken brutes. Diseases
like snakes crawling over the earth, leaving trails of slime. Wails from
people burying their dead. Through the window he can see the rocking
steeple. A ball of fire falls on the lead of the roof, and the sky tears
apart on a spike of flame. Up the spire, behind the lacings of stone,
zig-zagging in and out of the carved tracings, squirms the fire. It spouts
like yellow wheat from the gargoyles, coils round the head of Saint John,
and aureoles him in light. It leaps into the night and hisses against the
rain. The Cathedral is a burning stain on the white, wet night.
Boom! The Cathedral is a torch, and the houses next to it begin to scorch.
Boom!
The bohemian glass on the _étagère_ is no longer there. Boom! A
stalk of flame sways against the red damask curtains. The old lady cannot
walk. She watches the creeping stalk and counts. Boom! --Boom! --Boom!
The poet rushes into the street, and the rain wraps him in a sheet of
silver. But it is threaded with gold and powdered with scarlet beads. The
city burns. Quivering, spearing, thrusting, lapping, streaming, run the
flames. Over roofs, and walls, and shops, and stalls. Smearing its gold on
the sky the fire dances, lances itself through the doors, and lisps and
chuckles along the floors.
The child wakes again and screams at the yellow petalled flower flickering
at the window. The little red lips of flame creep along the ceiling beams.
