I woke up this morning With fewer steps ahead Then there are behind, As the incline increases In […]
Lord Byron
The shadow stretches And grows As the sun sets Into the sea, Until all is darkness. From daybreak […]
I wasn’t born with a club foot I didn’t fight in Vietnam I didn’t teach at Columbia I […]
They say, “Don’t confuse Hamlet with Shakespeare,” Bill wasn’t an introspective indecisive Dane, Byron wasn’t Byronic, And Dylan […]
Allen was in Asgard reciting America and Singing the Buddhist Bible Blues for All-Father Odin While Bobby and Baldr compared […]
When I started this blog my intention was to share prose as well as poetry (though poetry will likely always be my main focus), but I have neglected to post any prose pieces until now.
Summer of a Doormouse is an unfinished prose project that I haven’t done any signifigant work on in many years. I have hopes of finishing it in some form someday, but, until then, I want to share it here and mayb get some feedback.
The Summer of a Doormouse
by John W. Leys
“When one subtracts from life infancy (which is vegetation), –sleep, eating, and swilling – buttoning and unbuttoning—how much remains of downright existence? The summer of a doormouse.”
– George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron (1788-1824) Journal Entry, dated 7 December 1813
Oðinn, Myrddin, Whitman, Blake, Can’t you see what’s now at stake, Who’s for real and who’s a fake? […]
“All these people that you mention Yes, I know them, they’re quite lame I had to rearrange their […]
To Lord Byron, On the Nature of Immortality You wanted to be a hero, An uncommon want In […]
I. Thoughts
I thought of you today, Allen Ginsberg,
As I often do when the howls from
Desolation Row enrapture my mind.
Rapid fired images stolen from
Dreams and nightmares of America.
Starving in the streets like
Hysterical angel headed hipsters
And raggedy vagabond doctors
Crouched in darkened doorways
Snarling, scratching at the
Constable’s carriage for
A scrap of bread.
John W. Leys 