The Lovers Spat

By Sarah Stevenson

the death, then, of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the worldand equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover. `` -Edgar Allan Poe, The Philosophy of Composition

Death had made my soul angelic; Heaven was quite psychedelic, Giving me euphoric visions of my earthly days below. Though with angels I was flying, in my heart I still was dying, For I heard my lover crying, plagued with lonesomeness and woe. How could I abide in Heaven? God, I said, please let me go! Graciously, my God conceded, so to earth I then proceeded With my mortal body, seeking out my lovers study room; Saw him by the window brooding, yet, quite strangely, still exuding Happiness that was eluding devastating, deathly gloom. Dearest boy! I whispered gaily, Look, Ive risen from the tomb! I pulled back the velvet curtain, rosy-cheeked and fairly certain That my visit on this night would make his fading spirit glow; Nay, his tearful eyes grew frightened, and his throat was firmly tightened And his cheeks refused to brighten, mimicking the shade of snow. Do you not, I asked, remember me from not too long ago? Entered I, into his dwelling, as my throbbing heart was swelling, Swelling with enormous yearnings that Id never felt before. Darling, please do not dismiss me, I know that you want to kiss me, See, within your verse you miss me! But, my name is not Lenore! Not the point! my lover said, It had to rhyme with Nevermore! Never had I felt so ghostly, petrified but puzzled mostly By his eyes so rudely gaping, probing me from head to toe. When I saw his body trembling, I thought he must be dissembling; Are you not my voice remembering? Wont you even say hello? Though I was your muse when dying, now I am your breathing foe? His response was quite degrading, for he felt I was invading His poetic universe, where death is better than rapport You no longer look ethereal, now your body is bacterial; I possess no strong venereal longings for you anymore. Off you go then, dont disturb me. Quoth the Raven, Nevermore!

Though your beauty is outstanding, theres been a misunderstanding; Bless your soul. You thought I truly loved you with my every gland? Read this text on composition, brilliant in its noble mission To bring into my cognition, perfect beauty for a man To muse upon; and dont be mad, but that was just a one-night stand! He handed me the manuscript; much anger did those words inflict To tell me that I have no meaning when I am alive and well. You think youre so damn poetic with your sinister aesthetic, But youre really quite pathetic, telling me to say farewell. Let me kiss you one last time, Ill send your blasted soul to hell! In a second, he was stumbling, down the stairs went quickly tumbling Cursing at himself for all his necrophilic love affairs. As his troubled brain grew sicker, he gulped down a jug of liquor Trying to run slightly quicker, tripping over rugs and chairs. Calmly reaching for his neck, I said, I hope you said your prayers. In the moonlight he was hobbling, in the starlight he was wobbling Till he, in a feeble moment, fainted like a dying doe. I, since he was oh so callous, knocked over his bust of Pallas, Wrote I HAVE A TINY PHALLUS on his forehead, rightly so. Then I found that manuscript, and wrote these words, quite apropos: Screw you, Edgar Allan Poe.