[Not a wanksta, he's a P.I.M.P.]We've always wanted to right a poem that ends with a rhyming couplet, which rhymes "Rilke" and "milky." And thinking about Rilke. Did he steal from Nietzsche the beautifully-named Lou-Andreas Salomé? Rilke's mother: dressing him up as a girl, making him go about in public as a girl--until the age of seven; naming him Rene. Is his imagery heavy-handed or romantic? An addendum to Markson's point about the year 1922: The Waste Land, Ulysses, Reader's Digest, and the Duino Elegies. We think it wholly sound to consider Rilke's work to be the one that doesn't belong, the rounded figure to the others' quadrilateral, if you will. Little irony, no self-awareness (abasement in excess, though), and much God this God that blah blah blah.
Tumescent, abashéd, we find Rilke:
Not unlike our cereal, soft and milky.
