Thomas Stearns Eliot, the Englander who exchanged New for Old and even as a young Edwardian was evidently ‘expert beyond experience’.1. In his early poem, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”, he embraces the emotions of a gauche, elderly, erotically hungry man most elegiacally.
Call me eccentric, but the thought of buttocks on seats evidenced by butt end remains, evoked Eliot. Eyeing the pluvial effluent eddying beneath the park bench, I was reminded of Prufrock, eking out time in cigarettes and measured coffee spoons:
‘Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?’
His own ending was the answer since Eliot died from emphysema but that was long after the ensuing stream of personal and existential consciousness in a wasteland of quartets and eccesiastical exploration.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Walking with Frizztext in this third round EEE challenge