Thursday, January 6, 2011
In the time of the black death,
There were still little silly white clouds,
Floating overhead like some sort of joke.
On the day of the ergot fungus,
The bread brought visions,
And the violent jerks of St. Vitus' dance.
Leave off your washing--
You'll only have to burn it all anyway.
Meet me in the fields,
By the road where the Duchess's carriage lies tilted and empty in the ditch.
I have a half a loaf of rye,
And all afternoon to spend.
Come kiss me.
Use your tongue.
I already know you're contagious, and that I am infected;
We can lie here on our backs,
Watching the clouds, and our hallucinations.
If we don't die first,
I will tell you that I love you.
It's true, but
You can laugh, and blame fever or psychosis,
If you're even still answering me
"Worldes Blis" is a 12th century chant, which says, essentially, "earthly joys don't last for long." You can't really dance to it.