Sunday, 2 August 2015

First lines

This is a found poem of sorts, but it wasn't all discovered in the one place. If you can come up with a list of titles and authors, drop it into a comment. There are nineteen authors and titles to find, if you're of a mind.

First lines

The full truth of this odd matter is what
the world has long been looking for,
and public curiosity is sure to welcome.
All this happened, more or less, on the day
my grandmother exploded. It was
the afternoon of my eighty-first birthday
and I was in bed with my catamite
(it was love at first sight) when
Ali announced that the archbishop
had come to see me. So I said to Lol,
light of my life, fire of my loins, I am
an invisible man, but you better not
never tell nobody but God. Archbishop,
all-seeing, all-knowing, “Who is John Galt?”
Call me Ishmael, instead. He said,
this is the saddest story I have ever heard
and so it goes... At the hour of the hot
spring sunset at patriarch’s ponds
two citizens appeared. Through the fence,
between the curling flower spaces, I
could see them hitting. The sun shone,
having no alternative, on the nothing new.
A screaming came across the sky
above the port, the colour of tele-
vision, tuned to a dead channel. The cold
passed reluctantly from the earth,
and the retiring fogs revealed
an army stretched out on the hills,
resting. We started dying before the snow,
and like the snow, we continued to fall.
The past is a foreign country;
they do things differently there.
It was a pleasure to burn.

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