According to William Shakespeare,
Poor Tom had wits
And was witless
All whilst in disguise

According to David Bowie,
Major Tom left our blue Earth
And got lost amongst the stars
Becoming the titular Space Oddity

According to Led Zeppelin
Poor Tom was the seventh son
He led a life of work and play
But killed his ***** wife

According to The Cab
Major Tom would sing along
Whilst chastising the dreamer
Or, perhaps, seeing himself in young love

According to all these men
This muse man named Poor Tom
This muse man named Major Tom
All suffered an ill fate

According to I,
Arrogant poetess,
I pose a pondering:
What if they were all the same person?

"...and Death to me subscribes--"



(sonnet #MMMMMMCMXX)


How fragile light draws shadows up to fence
Our passage to and fro, ne groundhog's scale
Of is't author'ty? as blue heavns avail
Long naked boughs where last Fall leaves' brown sense
Half shivers or just waits in dead suspense.
This eye of April whose bulbs know th'exhale
Is but a whisper of frore breath own bail
And, buried, shift now to the hours' intents.
If I had inked how gloaming 'gan to stir
As rosy blushes warmed the vacant blue
'Lone on the West ah, what?  I could not, fer
All that, yet wondered as I sifted through
The flour and leavning if dawn would be poor
Or sans a blot as lo, tis for that cue.

02Feb18a

[Sonnet #107 to SouthHampton:  "...thy monument/When tyrents' crests and tombs of brass are spent./"]




(sonnet #MMMMMMCMXIX)


What **!  Write of the violets like t'avail
My soul of cherished hours gone far, far hence
Upon the crueler rending of joys thence,
And Life's dear fabric as it were, and pale
As aught excuse, read Shakespeare--in betrayl
Wisked off, as how those lines rouse for intents
Sweet minutes lingring oer the violets, whence
I lisped "...and Death to me subscribes--"(sans bail).
Lo, I can see all now as twas (in poor
'Scuse, eh?):  blue skies sae warm, and silver dew
Just melted off the shadowed clover, fer
Those minutes I bent down and mused, while too
Thus fingring purple dainties winds would stir
Across sans kissing...and why now anew?

01Feb18c

...the saint he ever is:  with a twisted halo.



(sonnet #MMMMMMCMXI)


Yes, Shakespeare loved SouthHampton.  Likeas they'll
Flout in these twisted days?  No.  Like fr'intents
As David cherished Jon'than.  With a sense
"...Beyond the love of women," on that scale
E'en wonderful (if I'm correct), t'avail
What drove black ink to cry anon that hence
Lo, "...single thou'lt prove none."  and weep from thence
Because his "lover" lacked a child for bail.
Friends closer than aught brothers as it were,
Which gave his jealous erm, contention, through
That, just cause for the notes prefixed in tour
To those long poems, and also therefore, to
His lines about that mistress who'd bestir
Such mincing lies in love's name.  Or, what's new?

29Jan18a

Dearest Ophelia:
Daughter of the murdered man
Sister of the murdered man
Lover the man who murdered your men
This is an ode to your fictitious life

Ophelia, my love, you are divine
Oceanic and loving, you are the blessed petals
Of a plucked flower in hopes of a fortune

Irrational, eccentric,
Your whims
Become the whims of others

The ickle darling
Who needs help most
Dying a death so jarring

Sinking, sinking, thinking
Into the murky depths unknown
By the Queen’s words not shown

By rue,
By rosemary,
By fennel,
By *****,
By columbine,

By regret,
By remembrance,
By foolishness, flattery, and adultery,
By love,
By faith and hope

Her judgement most bitter-hearted
Her judgement most secretive and dry
Her judgement most sweet-scented

Lost to a fit of laughter
By the maiden’s wit
Her act comes to a close
With mermaid-like prose

Inspired from la bella notte,
She shall be wed.
Look at her not,
Budding blossom.
Gardenia encounters her majesty
And wears herself upon her majesty’s crown.
Queen of royals where she belongs,
O’er the death of them all
Sing, Oberon, sing
Shallow eyes nay be prepared
Thy future shall quiver
In the deep eyes of the siren’s iron gaze.
Close thy naivety,
Shut the gates.
Another tomorrow awaits.
Do not look at the Queen.
Do not wait for fate.
The Queen of the Night approaches,
The Queen of the Night too late.
Gardenia, flower, return to the earth.
Remain, and be noble,
As her majesty’s rebirth.

It almost feels as though,
if I hold the words to my throat, the heat of my blood
will transfer itself through paper--through intentions--
until it rouses tragedy and plucks the frost from
each delicately chosen word.

It almost feels as though,
if I cradle him in my thoughts, the boy will learn what I already know
and run before history catches up with him.
He will run and cry out his grief and his fear and he will escape his spies, his responsibility, his head, his conscience, his ties, his ghost, his guilt.

But no man--no, boy--can outrun a demise like this when
he's tripping on the roots of the family tree and failure
has taken his father, his mother, his friends, his affection.

The only person helping him stand back up is merely a messenger.

Cast thy nighted color off,
sweet prince of Denmark.
Breathe once in
the warmth of my heart before a colder kind of
messenger comes to carry you away, no longer a son of any sort.

Or are you still?