How they stiffened and blackened. Cherished italics suddenly sour on our tongues, obscenities spraying themselves on the wall in my head. Woke to your clothes like a corpse on the floor, the small deaths of lightbulbs pining all day in my ears, their echoes audible tears; nothing we would not do to make it worse and worse. Into the night with the wrong language, waving and pointing, the shadows of hands huge in the bedroom. Dreamed of a naked crawl from a dead place over the other; both of us.
A lie fuelled by propaganda which drowned the desperate amongst a green sea of choking gas. It is from these experiences that my poem ‘Dulce Et Decorum Est’ was inspired. At war, you will be degraded to ‘beggars’ and ‘hags’ and you will be hacked away so when you are at your most vulnerable, the gas attacks will send you into a desperate panic for clean air. The quickened pace stimulated by repetition and punctuation of the ‘Gas! GAS!
from this torment that people call the Hollywood dream I have become my own enemy; I guess I’m plowing what I sow Please, make me a part of another 27 curse; let me escape; let me run I beg you, listen to my calling, my imploring, I call for redemption, I call for mercy Please, give me sweet sleep they call freedom, I am bound too deep…. I am making head in the game; but inside I am shredding my soul away, You are my last ray of hope, my only fail safe plan…. It’s true what they say that all that glitter is not gold, I have gold, but its heart turned to ash I’m reaching high, yet I am sinking deep in to my vices, my own desires, It’s a 911 call, it’s an emergency, I dance the night away, intoxicated and too caught in the dream I need final release, a final escape from what the people call making big…….. Please, make me a part of another 27 curse; I’m being suffocated throughout, come free from my own mind The reality is a haze; I am being deluded as I put on a show Let me the do the curtain call, I bow to my own crop; It is what they say; you sow what you reap…and I am reaping the worst
We dredged him up, for killed, until he whined "O sir, my eyes — I'm blind — I'm blind, I'm blind!" Coaxing, I held a flame against his lids And said if he could see the least blurred light He was not blind; in time he'd get all right. "I can't," he sobbed. Eyeballs, huge-bulged like squids Watch my dreams still; but I forgot him there In posting next for duty, and sending a scout To beg a stretcher somewhere, and floundering about To other posts under the shrieking air. Those other wretches, how they bled and spewed, And one who would have drowned himself for good, — I try not to remember these things now.
Dear Mr. Astor: Everytime i hear your name i am still frieghtened. My soul trembles and the uneasy feeling of hunger comes rushing back. The sound of the grubbling stomachs still seem to haunt me, they have followed me even though the camps are long gone. Do you by any chance recall that day when I walked in on you and your precious "female friend", you appeared so desperate and useless. I could not help myself but laugh at you with disgust.
The monster’s selflessness, compassionless and human qualities are lost as he is filled with hatred and revenge towards his creator and all mankind. This build up of revenge is seen in the lines “ more deeply did I feel the spirit of revenge enkindled in my heart” and “ misery made me a fiend” These feelings and emotions are the driving force that causes the creation to become monstrous and a ‘fiend’. The menace and fear Shelley creates Frankenstein are inflicted on by the creation, written imagery is used to describe his hideous stature and is seen in the lines “ something so scaring and unearthly in his ugliness” These dark and fearful aspects used are reflective of the gothic nature of texts also written during this period in time, the nightmarish and suspenseful scenes established in the pursuit sequence over the frozen wasteland infer the gothic context. The similarities between the inflictions of the isolation, abandonment and
You have to be an artist and a madman, a creature of infinite melancholy, with a bubble of hot poison in your loins and a super-voluptuous flame permanently aglow in your subtle spine, in order to discern at once, by ineffable signs- the slightly feline outline of a cheekbone, the slenderness of a downy limb, and other indices which despair and shame and tears of tenderness forbid me to tabulate- the little deadly demon among the wholesome children; she stands unrecognized by them and unconscious herself of her fantastic power. (Nabokov
In the Sassoon’s poem “Aftermath,” he explains war as something that can never be forgotten. The distasteful thought haunts everyone to the point where war completely takes over the human mind. He documented the war environment as something that was unbearable to live at. Waking up next to a fellow member and seeing their body decay was worrisome. The rats crawling everywhere because the environment was not clean and unsanitary was frightening to see.
We see into the mind of the speaker, sensing her raging jealousy and determination for revenge. It could be possible this is not the first time the speaker has felt this betrayal. She talks of a Pauline and a Elsie, although it is not stated who they are, she fantasizes of their death “And her breast and her arms and her hands, should drop dead.” The poem sets off in an alchemist, where the poison is being produced. The speaker appears psychotic through her elation as she see’s the poison created before her very own eyes. “Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste, Pound
boutt Medusa A suspicion, a doubt, a jealousy grew in my mind, which turned the hairs on my head to filthy snakes, as though my thoughts hissed and spat on my scalp. My bride's breath soured, stank in the grey bags of my lungs. I'm foul mouthed now, foul tongued, yellow fanged. There are bullet tears in my eyes. Are you terrified?