Chroniclers Poems

Dukes, Fops and Trollops

Hellacious howls tickle and titillate 
the trompeleil scene
 in the pastel Court of Kings.

Flamboyancy rings as the 
 fluttering coo of a rapiers dance  in the hands of fops,
through the high ceilinged corriders of castle     in the chill air 
buzzing past the ears
of the mischievous lillipitians,   yearning,
 egging on yearlings with antiquated filigreed foils.

Ludicrousity runs riot
 trolloping in fandango-clicks of hooker-red
across the quilt-stitched batten puffed blazers 
of Dukes and Pimpernels pompously prancing

 before beatific, porcelain, wig-topped dolls 
rouged and hollow-eyed. 

Chroniclers cavort in the manner of angry bees 
on spindle-pins, their stocking encased legs
 pawing at pedagogs who gawk slack jawed.

Only the puncture of flesh-framed torsos
 brings an end to the melee.


*Melee, generally refers to disorganized close combat 
involving a group of fighters.