Primrose Hill

She saw that electroshock spirit once more,
watching Ariel dance about the Holocaust fumes
while kneeling herself down before the oven door
so Gretel and the Witch could at last lay in matching tombs;
and since she believed in the luck of the Irish
she channeled Yeats’s Leda in her time of need
and took a deep breath and made a bell jar wish,
foretelling that oblivion would finally succeed.

The Self-Hating Post-Modernist Octopus (Jordan Peterson)

He can juggle several books at once,
from religion to biology,
but prefers juggling the
Christian narrative
and grasping blindly
in the mystical dark
for lobsters,
claiming things are as they
ought to be,
self-evident destiny being
the new
manifest destiny,
and if you challenge him
as he rambles along
the ocean floor,
(and trips over his
many twisting tentacles)
he may effuse a voluminous
puff of
darkening ink
(pedantic verbiage)
to mask his
post-modern escape
as defined words dissolve into
meaninglessness around him
and his trained
seals
clap raucously for him
in the shoals,
floating within the shallows
and threatening to go off the
deep end.
But he will never venture
into the land of light
or else he
deflates
with no solid bone structure
to keep him upright
as he becomes a
muddled puddle of
confused,
entangled
abstraction.

History’s Histrionics

She moves with a
Neoclassical grace,
each stiffly postured motion
premised
and pretensed
in staged extravagance whose effect
is one of seismic shifts
and cultural
sashays, ever sliding
forward, yet away from
herself.
She is so
old-fashioned,
yet avant-garde,
her swishing secondhand hem line the
cutting edge
while her precipitous
la-criminations
are the indulgence of every
conceited season.
Among a soiree of
charlatans and
Charlemagnes
she is the most honest and open
in her
duplicities.
A coy smile one moment
gives way to a
great wailing the next
over the pettiest faux pas,
and yet
the tiniest trifle
so wildly affects her
that it affects us all
as the whole world stands at the ready
to defend her honor
with war
while the mascara
runs lugubriously down her face
to sweep us away with its
black, murky drama of
“When?”
and “Why?”
and “How?”
and “Who?”
as we prepare the
duelling pistols
with which we will
give her one more bloody matter
whereby to practice herself
the tragedienne.

Five Haikus

Thus, dreams were dance floors
full of the dainty footsteps
of raindrop fairies.

Nyx perched in treetops,
lividly leering through a
cataract-eyed moon.

 
Having a sinkhole
soul, he preached in the church while
the foundation sank.

The Queen’s Word
Like a sharp penknife,
her tone split hearts and quill shafts
to bleed ink and blood.

To Atticus, Sincerely
Instagram models
somehow survive diets of
makeup and canned cheese.