Farcical is the modern age?
Yes, and reason thus:
Solemnity killed the sage!
Rage, refute! A plus.
Kindness, do ye often pay?
Those who sway, betray.
Poison in my pen, to slay!
What then will they say?
Dragonfire, thy fullest plume!
Vampire, choicest vein!
Choke, O mortals, on the fume!
Now to end the pain!
Hound dog, bay! O banshee, wail!
Bitterness, tell tale!
Slave down river, bill of sale?
Slops in master's pail...
Break down, communication?
O constellation, bow.
Ergo, elevation?
Keelhauled from stern to prow.
Welts around the beggar's neck?
Pigeons, how you peck.
Ships at sea, fear ye a wreck?
Hope, become a speck!
O fortune, bane or beckon?
Fates Three, call Muses Nine.
Tell them back in Kingdom Gone!
Hell and Heaven, fine...
One Couple Of Days all the summer long,
freezing in our coats sang a silent song,
numbered the stars by the light of the sun,
a miserable week — we had such fun.
On broken legs we were dancing a jig,
we swore off the drink while having a swig,
my tale is a farce and absolute fact,
I'm a stable genius, completely cracked!
They have the look, the farcical
Over-fanciful stamp
Of last minute additions; in
Squirrel; cone it clutches.
Or in world-sized expositions
Of a display's re-vamp
Lily-ponded, frog-jumped, for those
Charming little touches.
whooshing wits woven
crushed tongue cloven
dark age drooled
felon fate fooled
haughty nature's nimble
foiling feasts feeble
salient seal bruised
callous crave cruised
vying voluptuous view
severed passion smoldered
crushed, crimson asunder
squashing lanky lethal
farcical fury fumbled
fiddling fostered fickle.
'20:03:15:09:28
Note: Dedicated to Ovid.
Roses are red, ever redder when enraged.
Violets are blue, farcical as a cartoon page.
Those roses spread upon you’re aloneness bed,
and violets, the vigil of black and blue knees.
The redness of hair stripped of pretty petals.
A blue countenance that settles in the heart.
An infant-like scream turning crimson as the sun,
and inkblot blue with padded walls, facing no one.
Roses are red, violets are blue...you walk into walls
Like a wounded bouquet. Yet life calls...life calls.
He hands you tulips instead of death. You rejoice in his gift.
This one does not deceive. He loves you, not loves you not.
3/28/2018
Finding me a shape rather than striking one,
In and out of my fictionalized ego,
Then, allowing me to live with the ambiguities-
This is the best covenant you can offer
And I wish I could settle on the way you shovel
The cards I am holding, one eye on the hex of it.
I am trying to shake you off my ochre cells
In minute details of lung-filling hikes
Of never crushing this scent of unreality.
You say my face is schooled for beauty
And then your mouth fills with foul words
That rather build on my inner naked flame
Than smother the thin transcendent stream of me.
Here, one can see beyond the moral, philosophical attire,
The plain of me who lives within the plain of you.
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