Three Portraits of Sufferers in Hell
 

Hey homies, I wrote a new poem. It's called 'Three Portraits of Sufferers in Hell'.

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Three Portraits of Sufferers in Hell

The king, hurled by perdition from his bejeweled throne
and made a wretch who, starving, grapples feebly for the
fruits of fertile branches only to discover that they linger just
beyond his grasp, a miserable shade from whose desiccated tongue
water shrinks away.

Two bodies, locked, on the face of a mountain, in intimate embrace,
one of flesh and the other of stone, the former guided by a mind of matchless cunning,
its power now consigned to a brute errand
both stultifyingly remedial and stultifyingly impossible,
as neither shape renders real motion.

A nineteen-year-old boy
Who can’t think
About fucking
Without thinking
About you.

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How about those classical allusions? Eat your heart out, Andrew Marvell.

That. Was. Awesome.

I applaud you and would like to read it to my Literature class (with all credit to you of course) when we finally hit poetry, that is, if it is okay with you?

That was riveting in the truest sense of the word; well done.

If you still remember it when your Lit class finally hits poetry, feel free.

I like it.
I like water shrinking away.

That's inspiring.
Saving the words from losing their true meaning.
It's simply beautiful.