The Hung and the Restless

I am so bored and restless lately. I need a few different hobbies. I need to get a can't put it down book or find a can't stop playing it game or start an all consuming project. All I've been doing lately is looking at people's blogs, commenting on people's blogs, reading on-line newspapers, commenting on on-line newspapers, watching videos on-line, and occasionally getting up to walk around and around while my mind races. Maybe I am finally becoming bi-polar like I always thought I would. That should make me a little bit more of an interesting person. At least for a few months out of the year. Right? Anyway, I know, this is my third post of the day but I'm at work and I'm going crazy out of my gourd with ennui and there is nothing to do so here is my Keats poem that my teacher said was "Inspired" whatever the fuck that means. Inspired by your assignment, teacher man. We had to rewrite Keats' poem "Ode on Melancholy" Here is the original.

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty - Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

And here is mine. It is a lot better than stupid Keats'.

Nay, Nay! Do not travel to one of the several rivers of Hades that may lead to complete forgetfulness, don't squeeze
Arnica Montana, taught-stemmed, for its sickening juice;
And additionally, do not drudgingly allow the whitey-white top of your face to be pecked
By Solanum, which possesses a diverse range of alkaloids that can be toxic and is also known as the red water-berry of The Roman goddess of springtime and wayside flowers;
Construct not your neck-wreath of Taxus Baccata, having bright red berry-like structures called arils, which are they themselves not toxic even while the rest the plant surely is,
And do not let the sheathed wing insects, nor the Death's-head Hawkmoth be
Your baleful mind-mistress, nor the fluffy flying cryptid aid and abet your boo-hoo strangities;
For slight darkness to dim daylight will arrive exceedingly sluggishly,
And asphyxiate the alive, awake, alert, and enthusiastic pangs of painful angst of the self-aware essence of your being.

But at such a time as might come to pass as the seizure of sadness may plummet
All at once from the cloudy god-land kingdom as if it were a crybaby thunderhead,
That waters the mopey-crowned blossoms, each one,
And conceals the lime colored land form with a summit in a wetting more characteristic of the fourth month on the Gregorian calendar;
At this time, jam-pack your blues by pigging out on the early daytime blossom of the flowering shrub of the genus Rosa,
Or on the many colored illusion of the tides,
Or on the riches of orb shaped herbaceous perennials;
Or if your lady friend lover and dominatrix is pissed, jail her velvety mitt and permit her to rant,
And suck hard, hard on her organs of vision that detect light and have no equal.

She keeps a domicile with Prettiness -- Prettiness that must expire;
And Mirth, whose claw is always stuck up against his mouth rims
Saying So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Goodnight; and hurty jollies near in time,
Resorting to toxins while, simultaneously, the Western-Honey's pie hole slurps;
Yes, in that exact shrine of weeeee!
Thinly covered Cry-baby-lady holds her own temple,
But nobody else has seen this except this one dude whose muscle bound lingua
Can bust Mirth's water-berry right against the ridge of his awesome velum;
This dude's self-aware essence will suckle the mirthlessness of Cry-baby-lady's stronghold,
And hang on her wall in the heavens, favorite among her winnings.

I totally kicked Keats all over the map, right?