I'm ******* with Robert Frost
And the guy who wrote Paradise Lost.
I ain't happy with Aristotle,
And especially John, the weird Apostle.
Don't mention, please, Shelley or Keats,
Blake, Byron or Yeats;
Each and every one you see,
(if you're ready for some truth)
Took their themes from me.

Don't look aghast,
Don't tsk and titter,
Their thievery's left me
Mean and bitter.

Just because they said it first,
Doesn't mean I find it just.
It doesn't give them ownership
Of my themes and authorship.
I write of Roads, Good and Evil,
God and Satan, love and leaving.
I know I'm internally bleating,
But I can't abide this metric beating.

Although they're merely dust and bones,
They don't have the right to own
All the great lines I have sown:
The best laid plans of mice and men.
(I said that before Robbie Burns).

Let me make this poeticaly clear;
If I was there, or he were here,
I'd sue the *** of Will Shakespeare.

When you've got a brain like mine
It holds onto your words like life rafts
Adrift on a sleepless sea for weeks at a time
They swirl and fester in black ink cauldrons
Double double all the toil and most the trouble
The fire still burns amidst the rubble

Everything has a way of going awry
profound changes have to tell a story
How air may freeze and earth drown
in ashes of snow and tumble down
Lilies may turn red and violets green
All the opposite of what we have seen
I cannot stand against nature's will
With all these dreams I yet have to fulfill
All that foreseen, but dear love!
To the moon and heavens above
I swear my love for you does end
When Gods die with no love to lend.

I thought of you and my ear started to ring.
Is that my body casting you out?
Discrete madness
Desire building up
With nowhere else to go
but in a surge out of my head?

Maybe it’s an echo of my ringing phone
Good-morning calls
Bored-driving calls
Lonely-night calls
Random-2pm-thinking-of-you calls
i-just-want-to-hear-you-talk calls
A disembodied voice carried through wire
Whispers separated by highways
Longing to be breathed into the other’s neck
A love changing by the moon.

Does it mean you are thinking of me?
I heard that from somewhere.
Or is it talking about me?
Maybe it’s both
I know you moan my name
A smoke raised with the fume of sighs
Is yours ringing too?


This is a death-mark’d love at first touch
The fates cackling at our persistence
Our hands reaching pathetically
Out of grasp.

We are so afraid to be alone
So ******* stubborn
That we lack foresight
Sensing the inevitable
But denying, ignoring,
Sitting still as the earth shakes
Apathetic to the world devouring us alive
Attempting to defy the stars.

These violent delights have violent ends.

I really wanted to make a more secure case comparing the cardinal to those redcoats of yore, but, ah....



(sonnet #MMMMMMCxxVii)


I have a scarlet lover who, ere pale
First hints of dawn, begins to court, til thence
Smiles and soft laughter thus ensue fr'intents.
His perky voice and deep red coat avail
Long-cherished loves, as I think Brits to scale
So perfect; aye, put on the kettle hence
Tae brew a *** of rosy lea to fence
My porridge, while my cardnal'd sweetly hail.
Wee sparrows are my playmates as they stir
Such happiness as only lovers do.
If Tyler swears he loves me, Shakespeare fer
All that gives me perspective as he'd woo.
Perchance I shall be independent: your
Wish, Baby.  But then I will not need you.

30Apr18a

the wind is spiraling
the wind is spiraling

it is the rage
which has no object
the indignation
which cannot spread
is spiraling

the tempest is
scattering
the hell is
sparkling
under my skin

I am waiting for the thunder
I am waiting
to become the spiral
to shiver
and to sparkle

but the spiral is
withering within
and all my devils are
hymning to the wind

when will I learn
the hell
is me
and the devils
are mine

I risk it all to have it all;
The be all and end all.
Clichés like unmutual love
Show you what I'd do for love.

Blubber
Sometimes I get tired
Of all the blubber
The grinding of systems
The metal to the rubber

The pushing of points
The singing to the choir
Pickaxe in place of featherc
Look there's a bird upon the wire

Maybe potions going dry
No thank you please
And fingers going all stiff
While here awaits the feast

And vases laying all smashed
Words sitting there all torn
Lets gather the broken scraps
Rearrange them and be reborn

Maybe it's me and only me
Closing an old and tattered page
Maybe I've overstayed my welcome
On an old and creaky stage

Ah the sticks an stones are smiling now
The crows I think they've left
But the cinders upon ash
Still burn bright upon this hearth

Out into the clearing
See it twinkling up ahead
An inkling of some something
Some of us have thought of and said

Merlin's done it agian
Con-Ed's shut down
Tesla's come into power
And White Bear gets his crown
Oh
And
George Carlin is pope
Shakespeare is president
They both know the ropes
And you what ya think?
Wink, wink