Oh, e.e., why speakest thou my heart always? Why dost thou incessantly put into words that which my heart longs to say? In this new year, speak my heart again:
my mind is
a big hunk of
irrevocable nothing which touch and taste and smell
and hearing
and sight keep hitting and chipping with sharp fatal
tools
in an agony of
sensual chisels i perform squirms of chrome and ex-
ecute strides
of cobalt
nevertheless i
feel that i
cleverly am being altered that i slightly am becoming
something a
little different,in fact
myself
Hereupon
helpless i utter lilac shreiks and scarlet bellowings.
-e.e. cummings
