After the painting La Belle Dame Sans Merci by Sir Frank Dicksee But it is not me –not me in that painting. John Keats was ever alone and destined To die young—he was consumed, Consumed—I tell you—with disease Not me. And yet.
When he told me about the girlfriend Who had to be choked to get off, I felt my heart sinking, even When he added that he couldn’t do it.
On the blind channel, Jane Russell’s wrists strain the leather straps, Her bosoms in her filmic Howard-Hughes-created bra, Contorted like wadded socks in the wash. The narrator says, “She turns from Billy in disgust.”