"This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air. - W. B. Yeats

Sunday, November 7, 2010

**GUEST POEM BY MS. ANNA O'CONNELL**

The Love Pickle

I wanted to tell you
when I spent that evening looking at your eyes
and at your hair
That we would be awesome together
but you just played my guitar
and sang
and questioned nothing
And I wondered
How did I get into
This tight little corner, this saturated vegetable state
Where everything i say somehow becomes tart and acidic on my tongue
its not you, you're wonderful, with your auburn hair
flying away though static still
No I think it's me

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