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To see a strange outlandish fowl,
A quaint baboon, an ape, an owl,
A dancing bear, a giant’s bone,
A foolish engine move alone,
A morris-dance, a puppet-play,
Mad Tom to sing a roundelay,
A woman dancing on a rope,
Bull-baiting also at the Hope,
A rhymer’s jest, a juggler’s cheats,
A tumbler showing cunning feats,
Or players acting on the stage—
There goes the bounty of our age:
But unto any pious notion,
There’s little coin and less devotion.
“All of us wading through stage curtains to find something true. There is nothing in the box, my darling, just candles. Though, we were the side-show, the lamentable trough of us bodies boy and bodies girl and bodies spirit. Our skins, bred to lie. Sydelle said we were not of this world. We were on the Austrian news in the morning. We sweat baroque. We coughed blood. There is nothing in the box, my love, just fabric. We were in beds beside one another, arms and arms and legs and legs wrapped and unwrapped and faking and faking. And the pink eye and the shared eyeliner and the champagne and the start again.”
Lisa Marie Basile | Nympholepsy