I met two sisters so joyous-jolly as sisters seen in playful debut— I met the sweet twins, Fancy and Folly, while longing for experiences new. The one to the other to me but smiled as if each a mischievous cohort, and the two sisters seemed lovely and wild and worthy of great efforts to court. So I dared to ask for a dance or two and they obliged me at the ready, taking turns in the dizzying venue till my mind spun quite light and heady. But how to describe such lovely ladies? Fair, at first glance, as floating fairies with dreamy eyes as if beneath shade trees and lips as tempting as red berries, but as berries of the crooked yew tree, for they tasted of a final breath, and, if pursued so quick and foolishly, one may well pursue untimely death. But pursue them, I did, and quite gladly, the two together, or thus never, for they were as one, though both were madly in love with me, for I was clever. Though bigamy might give pause to weak men, the very thought thrilled without surcease, for I was the rooster, they each a hen, sharing my life without moment’s peace. Enraptured of them, I felt I could do all things, however implausible, nor did I fear what I might, in time, rue— for everything seemed possible. And my ladies did so oft entertain when I took them out on social nights, being popular (whoever did reign) and the talk of many socialites. Who needs wine when my twin lovers swayed me with intoxicating emotions and wild dreams that both made and unmade me in the drunkedness of their notions. What mischief twinkled in their lovely eyes! Those who claimed it a lunatic’s gleam were but jealous, envious, or likewise, at being denied our special dream. Arm in arm in arm, we were such a force and accomplished much by our merit, not withstanding the end result (of course) which failed because Fate could not bear it. Yet, even our failures were victories insomuch as we attempted them whereas others, from fear or idling ease, dared not, choosing instead the venom that was smirkful gossip and ridicule to recompense such complacency as would dismiss me as a naive fool while forfeiting their own agency. Who are they, after all, to thus decry the twins as foes of the human race when, frankly, such ladies are reason why Man exists in the very first place, for the twins were improv midwives of Man and have raised all peoples as their own from small, scattered tribes to today’s great span, great gardens grown from a few seeds sown. Without Fancy and Folly at our side where would we all be as a species? Never would we have gone so far and wide to dare the chance of our odysseys. And so I still court them, the sly schemers, on the chance of Chance they can provide, hoping they favor me as those dreamers who, in the past, took each for a bride.
When he speaks from the podium
his eyes glow brightly
with luminescent sodium,
gas-lighting daily and nightly
while working a puppeteer’s magic
and a mesmeric doublethink
upon the world stage that’s tragic,
getting as many applause from the rink
of useful idiots and lost souls
as from the Kremlin-backed trolls.
He can tell an unabashed lie
with reptilian smirks
so oleaginous and sly
that just the flow of its oil-works
floods the market with crude—
like OPEC, but with attitude.
He blows razzberries
that can make the NRA crowd
blow their gun butt-cherries,
(so loud and so proud),
but he likes to deafen cries
for “true Democracy!”
with poison, smears, and lies,
for he is Deimos-cracy.
He has died many times in the past
only to rise once more,
his constitution built to last
as people say, “Another four!”
Disseminator of discord,
profiteer of confusion,
he is Bolshevik and Lord—
both sides of the Revolution.
No Iron Curtain is needed
when he can create a wall
made of Noise heeded
on the internet by all;
a wall to enclose us
in a paranoid bubble,
in amongst our Nation’s rubble.
RazzPutin loves to frazzle
with political jazz.
Beware the mountains—
a mother suckles children
to fatten supper.
as it steals drowned souls downstream—
good manners prevail.
Though the seas are calm
the ships sink to the dark depths—
lend not the ladle.
Coarse, cawing laughter
shakes the trees near the temple,
mocking monks who pray.
Fearsome, flaming beard
and thirst for bloody battle
as befits a beast.
Protectors of shrines,
male and female together,
guarding gates with grins.
One leg to stand on
and only one eye to see,
hiding in plain sight.
Like rain in clear skies
they arrive unexpected,
playing tail-tell tricks.
Spinning many lies
within silken-threaded beds,
a love to die for.
These shades along the River Styx
stand mute and melancholy
like druggies looking for a fix
to forget mortal folly.
19th Century Reality Check
Drunken, the servant stumbled down the hall
and sprawled outward amidst the lordly ball.
So much of an uproar came from the fool
that a gentleman challenged him to duel.
“As it please my lord,” he said with a bow,
then proceeded to beat the dandy’s brow.
He broke the gent’s nose and blackened his eye
till the gent yielded with a pleading cry.
The servant then righted himself up, tall,
and glowered at the nobles, one and all.
“You thought yourselves superior,” he slurred,
“but now you can see the truth, by my word.
You think you can command us with your names,
but what happens when we tire of your games?”
He pointed at the gent weeping on the floor
and drummed his barrel chest, wide as a boar.
“Mark you, fools, a beast of the savanna
whereas you’re but cats on the verandah!”
He then stumbled out of that regal house,
having taught prideful cats to fear the mouse.
The Graeae (Professional Critics)
Oh, these critics three
passing one eye between them,
two thus blind in three
as they clutch at the one’s hem
and beg for guidance
while they look in jaded turns
and oft deride sense
for sake of what thereby earns
an eye passed again
as if good taste came, not sight,
with an eye plopped in
while in caves yet lacking light.
They cannot see much
in caves so dark with conceit,
each one out of touch
beneath the columns of Crete
and fighting for views
from the fickle, rolling eye,
blind to changing hues
in a new day’s dawning sky.
Clubfoot In Mouth
Lord Byron, that conceited bastard,
always had to put in the last word
like the boot to the head
of a corpse before abed,
but even that was a gaff
from which the corpse might laugh,
the clubfoot striking as befits
a club and foot dull to the wits
it disdained with tragic toes
as belike a nib, bent, that flows,
for he was, after all, an aristocrat
and, consequently, a pissy brat
born among pretentious elites
and despising Middle class Keats
and deriding him for dying from
a “bad review”, a conclusion dumb
and disregarding the acute thrombus
that had killed his brother, Thomas,
to whom Keats tended in bravery
while Byron committed knavery,
his sense of Art so narrowminded
that he was himself all but blinded
to the trends beyond his own,
like a dog chewing an old bone,
or a coxcomb nibbling his sole
swollen yet swallowed whole.
There is no doubt about it—
Lord Byron was a little piece of shit,
and as for the Little Ice Age’s start
it began, no doubt, in his heart.
Some are ambushed from within
by their genetic booby-traps.
Some say, “Original Sin
is the reason for such mishaps.”
But it’s best to think these traps
inborn, waiting, like lightning rods—
and listen as the thunder claps
like snares set and sprung by cruel gods.
Earn The Urn
Ashes to ashes, all to burn
in a clay jar or porcelain urn,
and so the hours of accruing wealth
amount but to a heap of self
dissolute of its former worth
much as before its earthly birth,
and so some dwell in the bottle
to drink away the days they have got till
interred within the selfsame glass
through which their precious hours did pass,
whereas others to cubicle cages
are confined by career stages
and yet others choose to be free,
letting ashes blow across the sea.
As for me, do what you feel you must
since all empires aspire to dust
and earth become a gigantic urn
for the things we think we earn.
How like children in full run
neath the ever-fixed sun,
and the daylight hours never done.
How like finches in the sky
twittering love’s lullaby
over the barley and the rye.
How like gold koi in the lake,
scales sparkling while wavelets wake
and eternity in their make.
How like the buck and the doe,
leaves above, lilies below,
frolicking wherever we go.
How like a husband and wife,
forever this lovely life,
never fearing Time’s reaping scythe.
When high or low, green or gold,
we are as children grown old
as the Summers of true love hold.
Should it end, this Summertime,
and chill to a colder clime,
yet would love glow gold on the rime.
There is much love to be had
and so much joy to enjoin,
far too much to be so sad
as if all a fairy coin,
and even so, covet leaf
in a purse of gilt Autumn
rather than indulge the grief
of a lordly, ill-got sum.
Some fear the poor peasant’s lot
and there’s much to fear in such
for what comforts might be bought
or fare found at such a touch,
but fairy leaf from the wood
can still make a bitter brew,
which when hot still tastes as good
if imbibed with wisdom’s dew,
for it warms and heals the soul
even when a trick is played,
drank inside when cold winds blow
with lemongrass from the glade,
whereas a brow on the throne
breaks beneath the coffers’ weight,
castles chilling to the bone
and troubles beyond the gate.
True his throat knows better food
and grows fatter, (never thin),
but it is his neck that’s hewed
if deposed by his cousin.
So when life gives you such wealth
from the Fae, those puckish thieves,
thank the errant, lying elf
and boil water for the sieves—
after all, you could brew tea
which might earn sums most handsome
from folks feeling quite chilly,
thus earning a king’s ransom.