I: Hypocritical Accusations of a Jealous Knave I could have sworn the Queen winked at me as I laid my Royal Flush on the table Clubs She was always the prettiest Hers is my suit: I imagine myself as the Jack Who turns her from Monarchess to Adulteress in the Royal Garden Maybe slip her a stolen **** or two To spite the King for he always Outranked me The chances of being dealt it are Sixty four thousand, nine hundred and seventy (ish) to One, If my luck is running out, Why must it be wasted In the gaining of ethereal money? Why not conserved for the selling of my soul to A queen who is not ink on laminate Card? Or at least not here in an Imagined Vegas or Montecarlo where Neon, though colourless in nature, Forms a blinding parody of a hell, hooded In green and pink and orange and yellow or more To pass as a heaven for The wannabe vagrants of brat nations Who may weep pennies for a disaster, Remove the split onion, retake the shining knife And bleed brass, nickel, copper and Slaughtered tree (more ink) into An impossible lottery Hoping for a transfusion with Monetary hepatitis and all from The blind benefactors Apply a plaster and Reabsorb oneself into the mirror I too am guilty of all this
II: Inside the Dreams of a Madman to Be Checkmate. Oh how the intellectuals do duel Yet spill not one drop of blood; Like the bishops of old before they were Confined to diagonals Who would carry clubs instead Of blades to preserve their Sanctity: Keep it white, not stain it red Or brown, dotted with congealed black; It is a wonder to paint But not to see or to feel This was before the days when Bleach could hide one’s Breaking of the LORD’s commandments And before the harnessed Lightning strike Killed the LORD himself in his creation’s (Midnight) Eyes And so the bleach was not needed Yet still it sold because Grass stained trousers: The fruits of a hard summer afternoon’s Labour in the sun An atom of wasted Childhood well spent Could not be called a sin
III: Nonsensical Ramblings of the Recently Awakened** The eyes of an ivory cubic Snake in two parts leer up at me Does this mean defeat at the hands of fate? Nonsense! I am the hand of fate The left, disused one to be exact; It is not chivalrous to use me Yet I am the hand of many things I know nothing of hands or of dice I tell lies instead