"This man, he roars in me, and won't leave be," // Last Updated 27.July.2007

Shelley drowned at sea when he was twenty-nine. He had a copy of Keats' work in one pocket, folded back as though he had been reading, and something by Socrates, if I recall. They buried him in the sand until they could come back and cremate him. Edward Trelawny plucked his heart out because it wasn't burning up like the rest of his body (too much water stored there, perhaps). I heard Mary took it and folded it in a copy of "Adonais," and then it was buried with one of their sons.

Image is "The Funeral of Shelley" by Louis Edouard Fournier.

This man, he roars in me, and won't leave be,

And he wears desperation like a cloak,
Thick and velveteen with silver fastens,
As he stalks these forgotten corridors
Framed in mirrors, dreams, lies, and choking smoke.
Outside, they whisper and fuck like heathens--
O, those sick bastards--liars, those actors

Holding back the best for that final scene,
Then it is no holds barred, darling, no holds,
Even for the sweet thing in her leathers.
And, yes, he can wander, his heart between
Those faded pages, all dried and lost in the folds,
With no fear and his cloak, no matter the weather.