I myself have all the other,
And the very ports they blow —
All the quarters that they know
I’ the shipman’s card.
I will drain him dry as hay.
Sleep shall neither night nor day
Hang upon his penthouse lid.
He shall live a man forbid.
Weary seven nights, nine times nine,
Shall he dwindle, peak and pine.
Though his bark cannot be lost,
Yet it shall be tempest-tossed.
Look what I have.
MacBeth – Act 1, Scene 3
On one side, let us pass his soul ’round
cause no one else will speak for him.
The campfire where they laughed and scorned:
“You get those, and I’ll take that.”
It’s not a money-grab!
Obviously he doesn’t care,
and no one else is there to speak for him.
But if he would speak for himself, would this enliven him?
On the other side, is not such order and discipline.
It is tender and reserved to find fault.
The idea was that he be metaphorically mothered, and that is what she meant.
No one can sound an alarm! For he is not yet upended.
No one is bold enough to speak less than half-truths.
Neither is any one of them able to relinquish her faux coronet?
Neither is he tethered there. Neither could they know without it.
Chaos is to beauty as a wagging finger saying, “It’s just his horrible fault.”
The world is oedipal for a reason not yet understood. Who isn’t responsible?
No one is, or would be, and everyone is guilty at once!
Now he will pop like he always should have and leave us all feckless in total shock.
But she will wipe her lips in the corner saying
“I did no wrong” regardless, ’cause he bode me
As he should have, and my debt is paid regardless.
Regardless is like a foundry, because everyone cared so much.
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