"Know thee well, that thou shalt never leave this place alive."
MINOTAUR
I stepped into
The Devil's tomb
A maze I felt
The best of fools
A charging beast
I could not see
Hoof and breath
An echo's beat
How deep I wade
My heart betrayed
A fearful call
Was no retreat
Was days, may weeks
I played that beast
Through twist and turn
Our paths would meet
The Minotaur
Bore his horn
I feigned, I fell
The bloodied floor
He thrust once more
My side he gored
This house of Hell
To mourn one more
His uncloved hoof
My shoulder pinned
His cud was smooth
Unclean as sin
He bent to bite
Was then I moved
My unsheathed blade
Her sharpness proved
I wrapped my arm
I gained my legs
Drew my sword
Across that vein
What poured forth
An evil smoke
As black the sheen
That wore his coat
I dragged his head
I walked unseen
A path pursued
Where none had been
To light it led
A moon as full
An eye as white
This sacred bull
A PEEVED OFF DOUG FORD
WITH TRUMP, HE HAS STRUCK A CHORD
NOW TRUMP WANTS FORD GORED
I lay dying, badly gored,
slain by Kahn and the Golden Horde,
only to come back as a fly
in the Palace of Versaille.
I went down in the Johnstown Flood.
I'm history's little thingamabub.
I always end up in a bloody mess,
never a button on Liz Taylor's dress.
Lightning strafed
the carbon sky
with blazing spears
and monster fangs.
Deep thunder boomed
like cannon fire
and rent clouds
from dreamless rest.
The grey néphos
wept profuse
to see havens
gored.
On the bridge
a maiden cowered
her moggy cat
in tow.
Sail and mast
trembled, racked;
a bygone king
bowed to pray
tossed on waters
thrashing wild.
The tempest sighed
gagged.
I played the flute for a rampaging elephant.
She hesitated, then flashed a forlorn tusk
and rambled on...
She trampled a greed-pocked society.
Gored its steel hook-wielding keeper.
and his forty-year reign of chained isolation.
Men with rifles arrived, experts at finalizing freedom.
It took 200 bullets, give or take, to bend her ancient knee.
She trumpeted to her kin, long ago marked for death...
Profits cut away from their gray mountain heads.
I played an Ivory flute for an angel elephant.
As she slid into the mist of a waterfall ascension.
Aim dead center, O aeon!
Era, this is now.
Ergo, O my stern scion;
Come to anyhow!
Looking-glasses are like wind.
Reality grinned.
Terror, tiger, tamarind!
Sacred til he sinned...
Gaunt the gambrel goblin?
No smile a-face today.
Whirling dervish, loud the din!
War, be on thy way!
Grey of the nebula pond;
Why is waiting good?
Yellow-speckled viper yawned!
Gone but understood!
Kingdoms are like prophecies?
Yes, in this context:
Rife, roil, rampant, rare! Disease!
Hell and Heaven, hexed...
Sort it out, O sordid sigh...
Do not ask us why?
Sylvan silver, art thou shy?
Bargain basement buy?
Syllable, unleash thy wrath!
Letters, break the chain!
Poems, place us on the path!
Language, take the lane!
Young is this old harpsichord?
Harpy, use a sword?
Bull, matador. Which gets gored?
Folly gets you floored.
Holly. Mistletoe, thy doom.
Poison, flow like wine.
Ivy, rune, ice, ancient tomb.
Cyanide strychnine.
Cataclysm, disaster!
Calamity, come!
Fate of mankind, I, master!
Doom and Death, thy drum...
Gore upon the altar?
Somebody needs to go.
Nerves within, do not falter!
Cease, heartbeat, post slow.
Tunnel subterranean?
What in there was planned?
Hell and Heaven, sane again?
Orders countermand!
Yellow skies in harpsichord?
Fall not on thy sword!
Every matador not gored!
That's who holds the fjord!
Volcano, thy lava red;
What feeds on the dead?
Questions such about thy head!
Countenance and cred!
Shrine on top of highest hill?
Wasteland, have thy pill.
Burn the bodies, file the fill!
Giant, duress? Kill...
Spill, O blood of heart! Solve? Start.
Take the human part.
Deadly dawn upon the dart...
Terror tastes a-tart...
I gaze upon an opaque silver sky,
Descending dewdrops, developing above the mustache maw.
Ascending the nape to taste cherubim cry,
Permeating petrichor, pervade the nasal in auspicious awe.
Palpable pain of tactile taps
Kissing canker sores and rainstorm rush.
Radically rampaging, for its rapid relapse
Rain, it's infinite, swirling fervor flush
To drown by an inundated impound,
A vehement, vicious, void that immersed,
Wandering weakly on the ocean gored ground,
Drowning, isolated lungs; bellowing burst.
The tyrant tsunami my miracle world-wide flood,
Exploding existence, imploding insistence, ichor pools; blackened blood.
I’ll never flap my wings again
the little birdie said
With all those drones up high a-zippin’
I’d probably end up dead
“But that’s not fair,” said the FAA
to our little birdie friend
“We’ll create for you a ‘No-Drone-Zone’
and your problem will soon end”
“Oh, thank you kindly,” said the tiny bird
but I just don’t want to trouble you
Since I’ve been coming up with some lame excuse
ever since a flying chad gored me ~ in the days of old George W
Happy Birthday to me
Say bye to seventy-three
I’m seventy-four now
My ox to be gored
The wagging tongue, a weapon is,
when vengeful words like arrows whizz.
They pierce the heart and wound the soul,
No surgeon's stitch can heal the hole.
Sharp words can wound and cut like a sword,
and make one feel like they have been gored.
What harm is done by spiteful speech,
When weapon words their target reach.
Like sparks that kindle forest fires,
are words that leave the lips of liars.
They betray trust and sear the soul,
leaving scars that are black as coal.
The tongue is a source of death or life,
So do not use it like a knife.
Make it your goal to praise and bless,
with every phrase your lips express.
If the tiny tongue you do not tame
It will rule your life and bring you shame.
Like the small rudder which steers a ship,
Your wagging tongue will make you trip.
She wore a singlet and a tutu,
Ballet pumps and slide in hair
And she practiced rigorously
With concentrated care;
But frankly her dancing skill
Was rather one of dross,
Her Dying Swan resembling
More of a drunken Albatross.
Then she met a Bull Fighter
Standing in the Barnsley rain
Cursing under his breath
That ever he left Spain.
Now they thrill discerning
Audiences every single night,
She in her ballet gear,
He in his Suit of Light.
With the big guitar playing
The mood is never dull
As they dance the Dying Swan
Being gored by the Bull,
And to rapturous applause
They restrict the encore
By repeating the performance
To just one time more.
Other projects are being planned
When they get time to rehearse;
Maybe dancing to the drum
Accompanied by spoken verse.
Oh it’s an exciting time
With no more Barnsley rain.
Operations have been moved
To a sunny Southern Spain.
Flickering flame
A discordant note
of egos that bloat,
so discerned by mind,
holds on us no bind.
Heart’s slight resentment
is discontentment,
noticed as a slip,
as we nearly trip.
This flicker in space
is our soul’s disgrace,
which though now restored,
at that moment gored.
If what is just is,
then bubbling bliss fizz
should be all we feel,
in it’s full appeal.
13-September-2022
Marriage is a two-edged sword
One end brandished by your overlord
~ At the other, your oxen gored
Pedro, a slick, suave and smooth matador
The pride of his native-state, Ecuador
He'd flash his red cape
The bull would go ape
After each pass, the fans shouted, 'Encore!'
One time Pedro let the bull come too close
The crowd sat in stunned silence, comatose
Pedro may have been gored badly
Yet he still smiled most gladly
'Time for a new gig,' he said ~ 'Adios!'
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