KENN

My Poetry Phantasmagoria: “We shall have a party!” Darkness falleth 20th March ('41), rendezvous drowned gods, tears flood salt & sugar ne'er known a difference. A Room O' Her Own ('29), leaveth vacant lives, kites doth soar only to weep alien tales, doth flood springtime sapphire skylines, all luminescent. Tail o' heads, questions turned X-wards, lest upon Rodmell outlandish auras doth drift way geniuses ne'er fail, drift & flow. “Adeline Virginia Woolf”. Oh! Hail thy heroine, thus chink o' Zippo's, rollies doth lean unto stanchions o' thought & women’s rights & how wrongs doth thy flowers grow? Blue twine antique journeys aboard South Kensington bus ride out, rattling bleak memories & ever ready lilac envelopes warned. Such was Bohemian Bloomsbury, a "stream of consciousness” high o' oxygen, doth waken metropolis. Idea's floating peppermint tepid frogs, doth flit from lily-pad unto lily-pad, thrice tickets enclosed unto Byzantine entanglement. Nor thrice ensconced doth cloudless Woolfe sky, a print press within multiplication o' twenty. How manuscripts, ternary submissions o' ostracized type-set, obviously. For The Waves ('31) doth gleam mind enchantment doth flow wild cognizant. Smoke riseth, gravitational thrice aided strange-looking piquant meds downed a bitter lemon haze. Her Orlando ('28). “How to concur self-doubt”. A Life less accustomed dwelt a rheostatic dynasty & followed cosmic breadcrumbs, all darker imaginary phantasms. 'Tis never entangled, To The Lighthouse ('27). As fought off fly paper ghosts, only ridiculed wildly sane doth put forth saucers o' catnip & cream. Black nib pen, fresh ink pot Mrs Dalloway ('25) how so lost once, no longer twice. Lest doth kiss desires incandescent torching all troublesome pasts. Finally… Entangled, doth hold a plated pen-point, a wild prolonged spent emeralds upon thy pillow, leaving vacant lives doth weep alien sensations. O' luminescence well thumbed if only she knew how to belong.