i was so poor growing up...if I wasn't a boy, i'd have nothing to play with. x's poems are like one's parents' clothes - always out of fashion. ...the time when trees get restless.
these are just some of the lines that were still legible from a fraying notebook page i found inscrutably sleeping under my mattress today. you see, my spring cleaning, well, it came a season too late. and while i was about to turn over my mattress - a seasonal must, so a domestic diva once adumbrated - i found this page footling around in my bed spine together with some four dull pennies, two heavily scratched quarters and a well thumbed skin magazine.
except the line about those hick poems (by a giant in british literary reviewing), i couldn't remember - although, i should say, i didn't try hard enough - the provenance of the other two. the fact of which frightened me on many levels, my impending senility, being the least of them.
the thing was, the lines were striking enough for me then to copy. and they still wow me now. its unabashed humorous vulgarity, its masterly picture making. (no faux modesty here, but it never struck my mind, once i found this loose leaf, that all what was written in there were all mine, all flora of my so-called scintillating hothouse of a creative mind. ha!)
so here's my quandary. i am just dying to use those lines in any of my posts. but whom to ascribe them? or should i even bother using quotation marks when i would crib them later? and trust me, i would.
a british (again) fictionist better known for her grown-up children's novels (what a sweet oxymoron!) wrote "all writers are thieves; theft is a necessary tool of the trade." fair enough. but how about honor among thieves?
