Thursday, October 27, 2016

The Ghost of a Flea (William Blake), Sonnet #321

The ghost of a flea is a flea of a ghost.
He haunts my dog with whispered itches
As he has a thousand other bitches.
Every beast is his unconscious host.
I have seen only ghostly human beings,
Not past corporeality, but through them,
Ill motive they're certain I'm not seeing
That sticks from their heads like an apple stem.
At midnight on a beach I saw a cult
Dance in self-abasement around their pastor.
He had power to bring their minds to a halt --
Red hair, white gown, their daemon and master.
I rose and warned them so they trudged away.
Am I their ghost of legend to this day?