Thank you for that; thank: Thank you for that; thank you very much! I apologize for my delay in reply. For reasons I am too old to learn, my G-Mail is not delivering my norifications right: some get left out. No disrespect intended and no lack of gratitude implied. Your poem reads like it comes out of a Liturgy, and that is a reflection of your soul.
Thank you, and yes I agree. : Thank you, and yes I agree. Drop implies damage or fecal waste. When my adopted parents wanted to embarrass me, they sometimes said I had been dropped on my head before the adoption; in school, I dropped a class I had no chance of passing; and my father remarked about the neighbor's boxer dog, once, by saying, "That damn Mike just dropped a pile like I have never seen before." (Mike, the neighbor's senior dog, did have very active and efficient bowels.)
What I like about this piece: What I like about this piece is its honesty,
it gets right to the heart of that tug‑of‑war between
who we want to be and who we have to be.
The simplicity of the language makes the truth hit harder:
most of us bend to duty, but the rare moments
when want and have align are where happiness lives.
Mate, that piece is pure:
Mate, that piece is pure chaos: frogs raining, rabbits ribbiting, monocles and cannons;
like someone spliced Dostoevsky with Joyce and then set it loose on a cruise ship.
The Rossaforts? Total posh caricatures, staring through binoculars while the world burns.
And the poor narrator’s stuck as a slave on deck, railing against shallow imaginations.
It’s satire, it’s absurdism, it’s cosmic futility all rolled into one.
Honestly, Pursia, it’s like a fever dream dressed up in a top hat.