Thanks for posting, Highlander. Alarming monicker. And an alarming poem. I would go as far as "finer" but "finest" might be a bit too strong a claim for me. The poem is simultaneously grandiose and distinctly mad. A healthy mind shies from that verge. If Van Gogh had written rather than painted, would he not have said such things?
A remarkable amount of formal control in this tale of a disintegrating mind, as if poetry were the last resource for order. The heavily end-stopped lines balk like frightened dogs at the veterinarian's door.
Alan Sullivan
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