As a djinn let loose from the scarfed glass,
a flaming bouquet abloom from gas.
As a djinn let loose from the scarfed glass,
As a djinn let loose from the scarfed glass,
a flaming bouquet abloom from gas.
Maybe mercy, after all,
is to be dead, like the moon,
unfeeling to one’s freefall
and the cold night—needful boon
to not feel the creeping rot
as it eats your pockmarked face
while the hollowed heart feels not
the cold void of lifeless space.
Yes, the dead may be at peace
like the moon chained to earth’s side—
the living long for release
while tears swell at high tide.
Downwind Thinking himself quite tall and claiming the high ground, he loomed over them all from atop a dung mound. “You’re beneath me,” he said, “and you always will be.” Bible in hand, he read from Deuteronomy. “So circumcise your heart,” he said, “and be not...stiff...” then choked on the next part, getting too big a whiff of the shit neath his shoes, as did his would-be flock who left, as so behooves those sickened by shit talk. “Wait!” he cried, but then coughed at the odor blowing with the wind, now aloft, and the heat now glowing amidst the Summer sky beaming with its full fire, bringing tears to each eye and worse than any mire. “By God!,” the man exclaimed, “and by Moses and Christ, and all who yet be named, this is a true shite-geist!” He wavered a moment, feeling faint at the smell, but rallied as he went though the smell did but swell. “Yet, I shall reprimand this age of foulest souls and purge this goodly land until the church bell tolls to declare all so pure as a Godly town might...” He gagged as the manure stank in the hot sunlight. Rallying once again from atop his dais, he preached against all sin, saying, “Lord God, stay us from temptation, from lust, from envy and from wrath, show us works we will trust and show us the right path.” Then pointing at a boy passing by with a book, he vowed then to destroy all sinners with a look should they read any tome that was not the Bible, but the boy went on home and cared not of “high bull”. A girl then passed in grace with ribbons fine and fair and the preacher’s green face burned bright red with a glare. “Vanity is thy name! Forsake earthly treasures or it will be thy shame in Heaven, these pleasures!” The girl pinched her nose and gave him a wide berth, fearing to ruin clothes more than her soul on earth. The preacher loathed the cloth of her pink dress as well, saying “Beware the moth that nibbles souls in Hell!” The girl did not glance back, but hastened to the downs, keen to practice her knack for sewing pretty gowns. And many a more soul did the preacher condemn, the world together, whole— leaf and bloom, root and stem. “Foul! Foul! So foul indeed! This world stretched beneath me! An iniquitous seed felled from the Fruitful Tree!” He stomped deep in the mound as if ‘twas what he scorned, kicking filth all around like a bullshitter, horned. “As a Joshua tree will my belief so grow from this filth beneath me and the faith that I show!” All day he preached thereon till sun slept and moon fell, and though he bathed till dawn he could not shake the smell. “The iniquities last, ever without reprieve as shadows from the past cast by Adam and Eve.” He thought it a trial from which others might learn, yet his wife thought it vile— a circumstance to spurn. “If you are so holy,” she said, “be a saint no more roly-poly. Wash away your foul taint!” “Tis the taint of the world!” he said, “and follows thus!” She screamed at him, then hurled a pan, raising a fuss. “Out! Out!” she cried, “Out, swine! I cannot endure you! Were I not wedded thine I would marry anew!” The preacher fled thither, backside aching from blows, and felt his heart wither, as did his crinkling nose. “The stench persists,” he said, walking the country lane, knowing not where to head while stench brimmed in his brain. “Now I am an exile from out my own good home, prey to some devil’s wile and forever to roam!” Angrier than before, the preacher returned now to the high mound once more with a complacent brow. “Still do your sins smell!” he proclaimed, hands aloft. “And will thus unto Hell when sulphur and fire waft! Raise your heads up to me, and know the higher ground, for I stand above thee, a sermon on the mound!” For the rest of his days the mad preacher lectured, decrying the world’s ways while retching on each word.
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.
These shades along the River Styx
stand mute and melancholy
like druggies looking for a fix
to forget mortal folly.
Cascading voices, as if from waves
throughout the resounding seaside caves,
call to promise ancestral return
while the dreamful stars smoulder and burn.
The wind whistles through resonant cracks
in mountainsides, betwixt seastacks,
while trees of a wood sacred long ago
whisper secrets only druids know
and an antler crown lays amongst roots,
skull white, hollowed eyes abloom with shoots.
Calling…Calling….Call from the Hall King—
hark and listen well, like a thrall thing
to the music that wends round the stones
standing in rows above bygone bones
of old kings, old gods, and oldest earth,
that secret-keeper with deaf-mute turf
where seas, forgotten, have gone to grass
and titans once strode by leagues to pass
with thunderous song and looming shade,
now but echoes that will in time fade.
Little lassie Silly Sally
did but only dilly-dally
in the sylvan silver valley
till she came upon the play
of the Wild Hunt in twilit day
near the rounded mounds of the Fae.
Seeing little Silly Sally,
Oberon said, “My dear, shall we
take a turn about my valley?”
And Sally, being so Silly
kicked up her frills, like a filly,
and said gladly, “Oh, sir, will we?”
Thereafter came the wild laughter
as Silly Sally followed after,
thinking herself none the dafter
than any pretty princess told
in fairytale whose telling’s old
as pouch of leaves for fairy gold.
Silly Sally took to saddle
aft Oberon, and her prattle
was such that he had to paddle
her backside hard after an hour,
for his mood began soon to sour
upon the way to his tower.
“My sweet lord!” Silly Sally cried,
“why smart my innocent backside
as a cow’s harsh leathery hide?”
Oberon cursed lil Sally then
so should she ever speak again
it was in but clucks of a hen.
“A truer voice was never heard,”
he said, “for a girl like a bird
who clucks with each unwelcome word.”
Into his tower gone at last
as twilight flicker-faded fast
into the night, so black and vast.
Once within the tall tower fort
Silly Sally was brought to court
where the Fae made much merry sport
of her Silly mad-addled head
and sleepy eyes, as if abed
while she served them their wine and bread.
Sally had been really silly
to take the ride to the hill she
knew was shunned by both brave billy
and every kid and nanny
that grazed near that grassy span the
village men called quite uncanny.
For though Sally was yet Silly
and had the sense of a gilly
with all its petals plucked, still she
should have known better than so dare
the King of spirits bright and fair;
she should have ran away from there.
Now she was in the Fairy Hall
where fairies that were big and small
gathered at King Oberon’s call
to feast until the rooster’s cry
when darksome night should fade and die
so the Dawn may retake the sky.
“T’will be done at the rising sun,”
Sally vowed, “then I’ll run and run
to the priest, or at least a nun.”
But Sally did not reckon Time
when in the magic Fairy clime
where the sun did but slowly climb.
For hours she served the fickle Fae,
cleaning after them in their play
while wearied wan along the way,
hoping the night to end anon
as the party went on and on
and the years passed afore the Dawn.
Oberon called to her at last
before the night had fully passed
and, smirking vastly, he thus asked,
“Dear, was my favour worth my fee?
Think long next time when you are free
and you come upon the Seelie.”
Suddenly, the King frowned at her
and she asked what was the matter
as his head turned, like a ratter.
“Why do people call you ‘Silly’?”
he asked. “For it sounds like ‘Seelie’,
yet it cannot be so, really.”
Sally glared at him, voice chilly
as she explained the word “Silly”
to him, her tone sharp and steely.
“It means that one is blessed true,
or lucky by chance, and chosen too,
which is much luckier than you!”
“It is no blessing anymore,”
Oberon said with a frown, “nor
has it been since the times of yore.”
Silly Sally shook her small fist
and gave him a kick, then she hissed.
“Back to Faerie! Back to the mist!
“I am most blessed among all those
among the sylvan icemelt floes
and the field’s golden barley rows
for here I am, revealed to all,
as does a doe at the buck’s call—
Titania, without equal!”
Sally threw off her girly guise
to reveal herself to all eyes
that dared to see contrariwise.
Resplendent in her wings and dress
and russet in each twisted tress,
she was their Queen, all would confess.
“I swore return,” she declared,
“and would forsake you if you erred
once more in life, and you so dared
to take another woman here
to our home within the last year
of our long estrangement, my dear.”
“And so no longer I will be
known to you among the Seelie,
but will be Unseelie till thee
flee this lovely sylvan valley
and make home some other alley
of eldritch place— do not dally!
“If thou cross me I will kill thee,
if thou mock me I will spill thee
as a crimson river will thee
thus bleed upon thy valley
while I stalk thee as an owl free
with talons to disembowel thee.”
With booming voice, she sent them all
away from that great Faerie hall
and bound them in a mighty thrall
so Oberon, King of the Fae,
could not rule by bright light of day
his kingdom till he changed his way.
Titania did not dally
but went out into the valley
to take in the air and tally
the times she had chastised her spouse
throughout the years, from house to house,
scolding the old abusive louse.
Remembering made her rally
her temper unto a sally
of magic in that green valley,
aiming at the tower till she
blew it all down, willy-nilly:
no one hence hath called her “Silly”.
Silly— originates in the word “seely”, which meant fortunate, lucky, or blessed. Reminds of the word “Seelie”, as in the good fairy court, and “Unseelie”, the bad fairy court. Could mean good luck and bad luck brought about by fairies
As a bonsai tree
trimmed of cluttering branches;
so, too, poetry.
Firstborn in the cold lands of Nod
to a killer exiled by God,
in a place abandoned by love,
forsaken by Father above—
and yet how is such nascent sin
borne by a boy hapless by kin?
Enoch, child from an outcast seed
and guilty by blood of his breed,
whose father envied a brother
for God’s love, more than another;
Enoch, son born to roam the earth
without hope, joy, mercy, or mirth,
who roams through the wilderness wide
beyond the vale of Edentide
and neath a God who should begrudge
Man as made by his cruel judge.
Cleptocrats never believe
that they have ever stolen,
by sleight of hand or up the sleeve,
for an empire fat and swollen
on the blood of their employees
upon whom they feed,
never knowing themselves as fleas
on a dog they slowly bleed.
They believe they built the edifice
on their own, and all alone,
blind to the truth, as Oedipus
upon his shameful throne.
Not that busy jazz
where instruments trip and tangle with
in a confused, rambling clamor
of crazed pedestrian traffic,
but jazz removed from the hustle and bustle,
as slow and moody as the haze
of smoke lingering long after
she has gone to bed,
the ashtray breathing thin
while its sultry plume is aglow
with the insomniac skyline
of a restless city—
while she turns in her dreamful sleep,
mumbling a name
like a wish in the cold blue twilight
of endless longing.
Perhaps piano keys
dripping like raindrops
off the eaves of the somnolent stoops
and trickling along the
black-gloss streets, alight with
the city’s neon blood,
or the steadily pulsating drums
that lull with their thumping ease,
the distant rhythms
of faraway apartment life,
and that soothing bass
echoing up to the ceiling of the soul
like a subway train deep in the
heart of the city
felt at the cloudy heights
of a slumbrous skyscraper.
Nothing is so fine
as sleepy jazz
reverberating in the
dreaming glow of the midnight city.
Wherefore the cock doth crow aloud
as doth a man vainglorious and proud
to fancy rise of gilded sun
as if a deed he hath by his breaths done
with lungs soon fit to fill a sail
so may his pride expand, a seaside gale,
and enterprise forth by high wind,
his voice a conceit unto fatal end—
for how shall puffed pretense prevail
if not by measure of lie he doth tell?
Let us join these tears by candlelight
as we huddle close together
in a small halo not half so bright
as we would like in such weather,
for this woe-betided Winter’s night
is cloaked in the raven’s feather,
so hold each other, (hold oh so tight),
knowing Death may always sever
our lives so starkly as black from white
in his borderlands of Never,
for a time will come when we alight
beyond such borders forever.