Lord Seward Beaverton was the Atlas of his dominion, ever in fact even holding up the sky like a long mop handle, besmirchments and assorted criticisms clothed about his neck, he closed his eyes drowsily and brought his shoulders sluggard; thus so comported, allegations and attributions in long strings constricted around him: he wanted sleep, but his weary red eyes were in the red of anger, not fatigue, and thus, he bowed his flanks backward and barreled his chest outward as if a ribald old creature, besides a too-modern regurgitation of every awful thing about, fully engaged in the constant shedding of his own skin--thus the derogatories and reproaches released from themselves and clattered chick pea each to the floor like a rain of shattered teeth about the firmament.
His lad and charge was middling boy Morgan Broome who would. Sit himself. About the knee of Atlas, that bark whale Lord Beaverton. He would. And the camp would listen. As they were about their work. Darning socks. Washing pans. Watering horses. His. Lucillus taking the. Lessons told tenderly. Phrygian lutes and the Dorian lyre--
the boy reading in the original language
to the chagrin of Lord Seward Beaverton
His lad and charge even had of his own a manservant, and for the manservant, assistants of various kind: Ethiopes and a stray Hebrew, an outcast of Espania with a golden crescent earpiece(his life savings, in hopes of the law turning such that he become a freedman), Gauls and Britons.
Atlas Beaverton flogged unmercifully their educations ordinances niceties trimming pretensions of the vague notions of knowledge, for Beaverton knew well a word in good season was a balm for the soul and as much knowledge action and wisdom inaction most sage, that the world and even the singular soul continually scrapped itself into bloody bits for the cause of change; Seward Beaverton sleeping beneath the apple cart had dreams that were anxieties about fictions of some half hour or hour's sleep and then were no more in the outer fogbanks of the spirit and he was, as he had always been in reality, never shook, never trust, and, in negative infinity that shown larger than the others never-ever and I am referring to the impossibility that he would be shadowboxed into place with some adhesive of propriety, joy or mercy, save for the insistence of the furry alabaster area between his cookie jar and his divining rod.
