of words_worth repeating (pun intended)

i sit here at my table reading poetry loudly to myself.
lou reed's how do you speak to an angel, bukowski's Gender Benders and Sylvia Plath's Sonnet to Eva which i have learnt by heart and cant resist every now and then saying it aloud to myself, just to hear those words spill over each other, so perfectly as if they were made particularily for that piece and nothing more.
i sit here reading exerpts from Romeo and Juliet. it is my favourite shakespeare, a close second would be the mid summer nights dream. Romeo and Juliet always facinated me. the naiivety of young lovers. it wasnt so much love as the idea of it, in the end. it seemed silly, both of them killing them selves. it ought to nullify any promise of true love, but then people see what they like and apparantly life is the greatest sacrifice for love.

bullshit. the sacrifice of love is going on after losing love. when juliet woke up from her death like slumber to see romeo dead, she killed herself not to sacrifice anything, not to join him, even, in the starry heavens, but to rid herself of the pain that was obviously engulfing her in big, large swallows. her death was merely an escape.
still, Romeo and Juliet keep me occupied on many a boring evening.

and then Auden for Yeats "you were silly like us, your gift survived it all: the parish of rich women, psyhical decay, Yourself." such heart break, such loss and still something of a jealous man.

and Ginsberg, sweet Ginsberg; with his tales of shit-laced anal sex, to how he could have had Neil Cassady he hadn't gone down on Cassady first, and his rant and rave of society and culture all trimmed neatly with some sort of anger towards mother. "Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!"
and i will spend a good twenty minutes every few months to read aloud to myself, as poetry should always be read, the entirety of Howl. the trick is in not stopping, even if your mouth is dry. the trick is to forget about how he said it, and find your own frustration and place it in the firm words of the gay beat poet.

and so i recite Plath again, for the millionth time and still feel the same love; "this was a woman. her love and strategems betrayed in mute geometry by broken cogs and disks, inane mechanic whims and idle coils of jargon yet unspoken."

there is something so exact, yet so vague that after all the words spill out with clumsy elegance over each other, im just left with an amalgamation of pure truth and beauty. im such a poof, i know. but i cannot resist the wonderful temptation that is poetry.