Not TS Eliot

13 Aug

I am not TS Eliot, nor was meant to be.  I’m glad that’s settled.  He is a dead American Anglophile Anglican born of Unitarians famous poet, and I am not.  And he did not know Trevor.

If he had known Trevor, would that beast have been incorporated into Ol Possum’s Practical Book of Cats (the most returned book in history I believe.  Thousands of little girls who loved Cats screwed up their noses at finding it in their Christmas stocking, exclaiming “Who dropped that turd in there?  I just wanted the album.  Not stinking poetry”)?  Would there have been an “ol’ machitlerstalinevilgirldfriendstealingdungface-mothermurderingquislingbeelzebubgit” cat?  Or just a road train that slams its way down the alley squashing all the cats into oblivion and smashing down the buildings that make the alley, so that the alley ceases to exist, and while its at it, spills its load of napalm so that the whole town becomes a jellified, sorry jellical burning mess, with fumes that rise and rise until they return to the earth in rain, spoiling fields for hundreds of miles around so they can never grow crops?  A road train named Trevor.

The Love Song of J Alfred Trevor:  Lets us go then you and I, and kill and maim and blow up the sky, and eviscerate some patient etherised upon a table, then go home to tea.

On the other hand, Yeats knew of Trevor.

“What rough beast/its hour come round at last/slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”


2 Responses to “Not TS Eliot”

  1. Jessica Accardi February 11, 2012 at 11:41 pm #

    “The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.”

  2. mymatejoechip February 12, 2012 at 4:27 am #

    thank you for visiting Glossolalia. I hope that they allow you to leave.

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