#petrarch
Laura. She tempts me much to self-abuse,
The sin of which is true love's evil twin.
I regularly sin by giving in,
Making a sock of fresh banana juice.
I struggle to resist, but what's the use
When future me will certainly begin
To tug himself (much to his own chagrin)
Thinking about her headlights and caboose?
The walnuts swell upon the walnut tree.
The sap is running—slimy walnut sap.
Her apples call my name. They're teasing me.
The hardwood grows with vigor in my lap.
I burn to plant my seed deep in her V,
The garden of her earth, then take a nap.
Jul 7, 2025
Jul 7, 2025 at 11:20 PM UTC
Come to think of it, Garrison Keillor reads poetry like he'd feign be Bukowski or something.
(sonnets #MMMMMCCCXXXII and MMMMMCCCXXXIII)
I
Bukowski. If I'd known--and there must trail
Off seeking an excuse to bother hence
With aught. Nor should I have writ these his sense
Of our supposed age could acknowledge bail
For, since his voice kills any spirit's frail
Hope of existance, while he coughs from thence
To fiercely say the madness dictates whence
As chopped, clipped phrases whereby he'd prevail.
And Shelley, who saw further than now's poor
Horizon, said art veils her glass whilst through
The centries curs as ole Bukowski tour--
To vanish, sans a note. Yet here all who
Aspire think vile is tops, our work as twere
In vain and refuse. Cuz such never knew.
II
Lo, ****** Surrey, Wyatt, and aught hence
Who bowed themselves to Petrarch's mincing scale,
Yes, "polished our erst homely," ruder tale
Of lines and poetry, whose manners thence
Became refined thus as we yielded, whence
Far more rebelled than dared submit, t'assail
What set us 'part from beasts as if in frail
Excuse to cavil suited their intents.
He said the "mountaintop" was mine as twere
T'enjoy, but if I wanted friends maunt do,
As they all wallowed in the mud, each boor
Disgusted save by filthy scents. Sans clue
Of our high calling meant to raise th'obscure
Light for our fellow man, ye can't, who knew.
24Dec15c,d
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
Oh mysterious one, hidden by life
Will you not spare my dear one, my brother?
Choose me, oh Death, instead of another.
Do you not understand I cause this strife?
It is I, your judge, begging for thine knife
I will sign his contract. My name, no other
Will know you as I do – my life, smothered
In the place of his, I pick up death’s fife.
Do not fret; your day comes after his time
Has ended; naught you can do now but wait
For the Scythe to find thine own mortal thread.
Until said severance ends this sad rhyme,
Do not think about the sisters three: Fate.
Live without your brother; he rests his head.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 7:36 AM UTC