Ghosts Do
by LIONEL WIGGAM
GHOSTS do, they really do, exist.
They are your own.
I do not mean the cellophane species blown
Through castle corridors or breathed above
A medium’s head. Such ghosts are real.
They are your own.
I do not mean the cellophane species blown
Through castle corridors or breathed above
A medium’s head. Such ghosts are real.
True ghosts are never real. No realer than
The not-nice, bosomy girl you kissed
And never called again;
The man you liked but snubbed;
The feeling you were too refined to feel:
The love
You were too mother’s-own-
Fastidious-boy to love.
The not-nice, bosomy girl you kissed
And never called again;
The man you liked but snubbed;
The feeling you were too refined to feel:
The love
You were too mother’s-own-
Fastidious-boy to love.
These things that you remember wanting, you
Strangled or stamped to death, for taste.
Such funk, such waste.
Such hosts
Of true, true ghosts.
They will, of course, continue haunting you.
Strangled or stamped to death, for taste.
Such funk, such waste.
Such hosts
Of true, true ghosts.
They will, of course, continue haunting you.