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2 Revolutons Tend toward Orthodoxy Almost time for the September Massacres. William Wordsworth is wandering around impressing the soft wax of his mind in that 65% oblivious way of a 24-year-old about to knock up a counterrevolutionary in spite of his republican essayistic chops maybe because of his not-too-hot French and being inside the brig of a young, male British body. It’s not called English kissing after all. Previously he’s been so moved by a tree, a ghost story, a vagrant and long walks but still he’s having trouble being born, the revolutionaries sitting around on sacks of raw flageolets, progenitors of the beanbag chair. They are waiting for Robespierre, regrettably. Later the trial of Marie Antoinette makes the poet in his birth canal nervous even with those champagne glasses molded from her breasts. Somehow the Committee of Public Safety accentuates her beauty, what the Reign of Terror has in common with a pushup bra. Napoleon is getting ready, he does not see his end in Elba turning into a dessert. Edmund Burke is getting ready. Flower Power is getting ready (skipping ahead). The crystal doorknobs are wiped with disinfectant. The bread is distributed to the battlements. 600 heads in one week. Outrage, conviction, bliss, dreadful outcome, 2 hope, disappointment, oh imagination, repeat. Daffodils are getting ready in their dirt. The Prelude is getting ready but not until Wordsworth’s death, the dedication removed. ...

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