The Raven in my pants.
The Black Cat in my pants.
The Cask of Amontillado in my pants.
A Descent into the Maelstrom in my pants.
The Gold-Bug in my pants.
Hop-Frog in my pants.
The Imp of the Perverse in my pants.
The Purloined Letter in my pants.
Eldorado in my pants.
The Masque of the Red Death in my pants.
The Oval Portrait in my pants.
The Pit and the Pendulum in my pants.
The Premature Burial in my pants.
The Haunted Palace in my pants.
Annabel Lee (Er—I mean my wife!) in my pants.
The Tell-Tale Heart in my pants.
The Bells in my pants.
The Conqueror Worm in my pants.
A Dream Within a Dream in my pants.
Poe
Maybe January Light Will Consume (Cento)
poetryIn vacant or in pensive mood,
And be one traveler, long I stood
To cool in the peppermint wind
Of a surf-tormented shore.
The dews drew quivering and chill:
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
The roof was scarcely visible.
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Yet if hope has flown away
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
Somewhere ages and ages hence
My heart moves from cold to fire,
And dances with the daffodils.
in the basement
poetrythe deed finally done,
he smiled uncontrollably
as the last stone was placed,
as his work finally finished,
as his old life was buried
along with the body,
that once was his .
the sieve and the sand 