Long Soused Poems
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(alternately known as the Doubting Thomas Crown
Taj Mahal Cupid Affair)
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Fortunate (for me) thee bona fide "FAKE" Cupid
(aka Decoy Donald Duck
and side kickstarter Jay Rad,
colluded donning one alias,
which (former and latter)
amounted tube bing disguised incognito
as the cingular "Ivan Ha Bea Robber Baron),"
while same above placed
their System Of A Down on high alert
whereby, they unwittingly, fortunately,
and accidentally discerned disquieting "noise"
i.e. static electronic crackling
purportedly from nemesis, asper sans above
whereby broadcasters colluded
confusingly, congruously, and convincingly
as thee infamous digital (duplicity)
faux "Big Mac" Trump.
The chalkboard scratching, hair sprayed bouffant,
and knuckle crackling
appeared tubby the handiwork cleverly disguised
(as tinpot dictator antics of Moscow's version,
sans Putin on the ritz),
which decrypted garble (a fluke) as iterated above
strongly emanating via polygamous,
prestigious, and pseudonymous
pull no punches ploy
innocently convincing feigned
duo code named "Ashley Madison and Bert"
disclosing (when uncovered),
a heartless conspiracy in concert
with Sesame Street studded lesser known Muppets
pretending tubby oil tycoon Bedouins
intent to fleece "sensitive"
top secret military defense contracts,
which Russian motley crue ace double agents
intended this act of espionage thence sabotage
feted as a Black Sabbath Lupercalia feint
not for the faint hearted clubby fete
where Cupid given free rule of the roost
allowing, enabling and proffering
Cyrillic chattering Cherubim
hook cooked United States "figurative goose"
lock, stock and barrel, which stratagem
captured president unawares
and did significantly boost
Eastern Bloc reconnaissance (on par
with the Philadelphia Eagles
winning 2018 Super Bowl LII
which surprise clenching championship
wrought frenzied hoopla, gala, and bacchanalia
where barenaked ladies
cavorted nsync with beastie boys,
whence City of Brotherly love hoopla found
nearly every man, woman and child soused
(analogous to each person garnering
an early Sainted Patrick's pot of gold.
God Save the King! So echoed round
the village halls, the pubs, the streets
the day our Charlie Prince was crowned.
Homes decked with bunting, cake, and treats.
We celebrated with a rave,
or knees-up, as my grandma said;
with piped music via short-wave.
At two pm, it went ahead.
They closed the street the coppers did.
Then out came tables, plates, and chairs
lace runners, doilies, too, amid
assorted china tablewares.
The caravans and four-by-fours
were parked elsewhere to clear the way,
they even shut the local stores
and closed the schools, hip hip, hooray!
Outside of number seventeen,
twixt the sausage rolls and jelly,
rested a crocheted King and Queen
removed from atop the telly.
Not to be beat, at twenty-two,
they placed a lifesize photo out;
which overlooked the cheese fondue,
soused herrings, and some sauerkraut.
Betty and May sang old-time songs
atop a shaky stage, arrayed
with bunting; made from their spare thongs;
while Ruth, the ukelele, played.
The Aussies were there, well, on screen.
Bobby, Kenny, and Aunt Maud too
to toast the King and mourn the Queen
with tea (and a tinny or two!)
Simon and Peter went all out,
made a spread called L G B tea;
with brightly coloured cakes throughout.
Open to all, as it should be!
Douglas and Rex from forty-eight
sat with Lil as she won her prize;
for the most original plate,
coronation jerk shrimp surprise.
Prizes too for best-dressed table,
front door, and garden gate, won by
Teddy, Fred, and Aunty Mable;
all well-deserved, we can't deny.
Captain Brett (self -titled we think)
gave a roaring one-gun salute
sporting a coat of dazzling pink
over his Royal Navy suit.
Thalis, made by Shrimati Nath,
were such a delicious hit they
caused a queue up her garden path.
(They paired well with Andre's Cabernet.)
We kids, long past our sugar high,
so full of cake, shrimp, nans, and stuff,
were told to say a quick goodbye;
we'd been awake quite long enough.
As the sun set on our nation,
Old Fionn Byrne began to sing,
a joyful amalgamation;
Danny Boy and God Save the King!
Inadequate sleep ex(spells) volatile mental state
Existential crisis ensued,
hence the following
I attempt to relate
forewarning the missus,
who heard bellicose me loud and clear
excoriate, deprecate, communicate
callously, blisteringly, angrily... expostulate
refrain awakening this sleeping spouse
yours truly unapologetically will berate
forgetting self promise
vowing never to castigate,
yet flush with red hot poker rage
out nostrils steam doth emanate
analogously soused madman
ranting and raving
seething venomous, obstreperous,
iniquitous, ferocious... hate.
Violent monstrous, horrendous,
atrocious... beastie boy awoke
reconciliation with goo goo doll broke
bitter bile doth choke
experiencing helplessly shape shifting,
whereby one fell stroke
witnesses emergent Mister Hyde
frighteningly evil doppelgänger doth cloak
easy going, mild manner Doctor Jekyll
former incarnation, where vitriol spoke
housed said baneful nightmarish spirit
killed latter personality
without so much as "ribbit" he did croak.
Back far as I can remember
best not disturb
akin to sleeping bear
wrath nobody can curb
once roused not unlike Croat Serb
War of Independence fought
from 1991 to 1995
decades long smoldering resentment
series of unfortunate events did perturb
between Croat forces loyal
to the government
of Croatia, which declared independence
impossible mission to summarize,
within couple lines
comprising poetic blurb
disintegrating Socialist Federal
Republic of Yugoslavia.
One look no further
than Greek mythology,
where said classical civilization
incorporated elaborate building blocks
to explain human
nature as well docks
side of the moon,
particularly the seven deadliest sins
unleashed out Pandora's box
I suppose more diabolical
than high school jocks,
whereby yours truly
convenient sacrificial "scapegoat"
after effects still reverberate
like chicken pox
scarred psyche, no matter
still recollect rocks
thrown at Boxer/ Dalmation
Georgie by the Daily's
when family lived
on Lantern Lane.
Early days as a flaneur;
I recall the couple
On the Metro
When I was still innocent
Of its labyrinthine complexities;
Slim pretty white girl,
Clad head to toe
In new blue denim,
Wistfully smiling
While her muscular black beau
Stared straight through me
With fathomless, fulgorous orbs;
And one of them spoke
(Almost in a whisper):
"Qu'est-ce que t'en pense?"
Then it dawned on me...
The slender young Parisienne
With the distant desirous eyes
Was no less male than I.
Being screamed at in Pigalle,
And then howled at again
By some kind of wild-eyed
Drifter who told me to go
To the Bois de Boulogne to seek
What he clearly saw as my destiny;
Getting soused in Les Halles
With Sara
Who'd just seen Dillon as
Rusty James,
And was walking around in a daze;
Sara again with Jade
At the Caveau de la Huchette.
Cash squandered
On a cheap gold-plated toothbrush,
Portrait sketched at the Place du Tertre,
Paperback books
By Symbolist poets,
Second hand volumes
By Trakl and Deleve,
And a leather jacket from
The flea market
At the Porte de Clignancourt.
Metro taken to Montparnasse,
Where I slowly sipped
A demi blonde
In one of those brasseries
(Perhaps)
Immortalised by Brassai;
Bewhiskered old man
In a naval officer's cap,
His table bestrewn
With empty wine bottles
And cigarette butts,
Repeatedly screeched the name
"Phillippe!" until a bartender
With patent leather hair,
Filled his wineglass to the brim,
With a mock-obsequious:
"Voila, mon Captaine!"
I cut into the Rue du Bac,
Traversed the Pont Royal,
Briefly beheld
Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois,
With its gothic tower,
Constructed only latterly,
In order that
The 6th Century church
Might complement
The style of the remainder
Of the 1er Arrondissement,
Before steering for the
Place du Chatelet,
And onwards...Les Halles!
I saw in her eyes the sallowness of festered love.
My drum had beaten to the resonance of celebration,
Of the deeds of love evaluation.
Her art bemuses me, especially when spoken and
Sketched to the rhythms of assayed hollowness –
Mottled balances echo silently on withered spots,
And the words she cherishes lie way below frontiers of enchantment.
How short my éclat reigned!
And my blood congealed!
Do I lay prostrate to hypoxia?
If I could borrow a leaf from her, I trust it would be the leaf of Love.
And on the edge of skewered times, I would lend the fit of
Pyrokinesis, cauterizing the inclement weather of her deception.
There’s that culture shock which love carries.
It kills and maims, yet lays crusts of veneer on one’s
Premeditated ego, pointing skyward like the finial of
Root-pannelled structure of breathless architecture.
My heart aches to the illusion of several months borne
Through the whim of my angel.
I wake on the brim of her nose.
Her eyes are grey and distant.
Rust besieges her hair with sliced threads of extended harvests.
I level up to her art with a hamster tied to the loose
Slivers of bamboo elements – with a repast so heartlessly
Soured by the sun.
I lean beneath her iron door, long loosened by the courage
Of assembled art.
My heart bleeds.
She lied to me.
As slimy as the mucilage of the okra,
I have shed genuine light of her hidden treasure.
And on a dark, vengeful night on the corridors of April,
Saturn, spinning her icy rings, revealed much.
And her love, deep and garish, traces peregrinations of
A hunter’s search through wooded paths, rain-drenched and musty.
From the shebeen to the sacristy.
The village church bell peals to the beat of my heart – a heart so deceived.
The gloom, structured in gossamer, binds me, haunts me.
Red banners of camwood yield to the moist of invaded space,
Tenebrous, and soused with the tears of a fallen roof.
Flaking tongues of prurient monsters lick my toes in noisy flicks....
God, where have I been?
Part 1
Onion
the delicacy of friendship
I found you in the flowers
Standing tall we become one
Looking down from gangly towers
Squash, you burn, you pillage, son.
Follow me you say in tongues
Thy shallow mind reveal me tell
Whisper lies clean load the guns
I feel the burn I rot in hell
Friend folly menacing the liar
I loathe this coffin how it leaks
Dear foe you raped me set on fire
The onion peal itself and weeps
Part 2
Traitor
dear monkey boy
Older eyes eat themselves,
glance and kill the other
Unified in the dance,
they steer the musty rudder.
Pained and sweeter deeper wells,
poised buckets drunk with water.
Singled out the one that dried,
handed weights to pull him under.
Wiser times capture the mind,
death justifies dishonor.
Knife slice neat through the devil's back,
who stares blank and milks the udder.
Part 3
Tempest
patron saint
Inside this box
Goodbye tempestuous fall
My puppet of steel coiled thread
Smashed buttons and twisted dread,
Alarm these doors, and
Escape this delusive bunker bed
Stamp the spiders
Thief, vulture of the deflection
The mocking patron of the sinners
Erase this affliction
Relating inward at the reflection
Rise you fool
Part 4
Phoenix
i love you
close the grip
cinched hematic grip
drenched, clawing
seeking the sheave
becoming the counterweight
i absorb, now
extracting the heat
rise like a phoenix
away to be gone to be free
fix me! i have fixed me
i am alive and i love you
Part 5
Aye, Damager
Abolish her state of disrepair
Scattered, spattered drippy thoughts
All around this box of soused leaves
Soak, ferment in the faith of our love
I can't fix this, you know
I loathe this misunderstanding
Of what I am speaking, projecting
To me, Aye Damager, to you
This devil in me
turned and twisted
A wrecked elevator in rejection
Years locked painfully aware
...
Let's live in a fairytale,
you can chase away the dragons,
who's smoke breathes to life,
the nightmares in my dreams.
I can be your Princess,
You can hold me in your arms,
Like a Knight in shinning armor,
And hush away my screams.
No more wasted time,
with smoke and mirrors,
You're not a Court Jester,
lets speak the truth.
Will you say a sweet goodbye,
Or will you not shed a tear from your eye,
There's a dagger in my heart,
The icy pain is all I need for proof.
Diamond teardrops from my eyes,
Hurry dear, they say you must be quick,
To capture each before they dry,
The tears of when a Gypsy cries.
Are you, nothing more than a collector,
Do I hold no beauty in beggers clothes,
Lets face reality my love, you are no knight,
And neither a Prince if truth is to be told.
And I am no Princess,
Did I once have you fooled?
Though once we lived as such,
Our love has ever cooled.
Must I break through,
Past the freezing layers of your heart,
To see if the thought still pains you,
Of us being forever apart?
I must open my eyes,
And live in the truth,
That dragons do not exist,
And are just fiction of the soused.
You will not ever save me,
from their tongues of flame,
But burn me with your own,
And make me feel my shame.
You will not shield me,
from poisened arrows that fall,
but with the anger in your eyes,
I'll feel as if they've broken through the castle walls.
I was once, the Juliet,
That led you to your death,
Venom rampent through your veins,
Revenge seems to be your quest.
At each word you say,
It feels as though I'll die,
My heart breaks and shatters,
And you show no concern of why.
And yet at night you pull me close,
Whispering sweet nectar to me,
That makes me wonder,
Must we still live in their reality?
Is there hope left for our fairytale,
To have a happy end?
Love like a fairytale, or Harsh Reality,
No time left to pretend, I must know the end.
Aye agreed
and did promise to pledge troth
faster than greased lightning airspeed
once the missus temporarily
ceased menarche regarding monthly bleed
became in family way with child
thee eldest, whom one day may breed
opting out begetting offspring
later versus schooner, I must concede
first born proactive with beau
raising one or more progeny
sprouting like loco crazyweed
hypothetical kin unschooled,
viz no particular
race, religion, creed...
cuz unlike das papa,
she carefully plots
being University of Penna degreed
shipshape smarts anchors ahoy mate
well seasoned life, yes indeed
unlike me willy cocked,
limp bizkit primed to hawk kitty
then future spouse did not intercede
once peppy begged, connived,
dictated tug get freed
birth control neither I,
nor missus did heed
sowing wild oats courtesy yours truly
didst adeptly beg, burrow, knead
mini straw nee
testosterone totally tubular
lil trouser snake proceed
letting call of wild take lead
tube (steak king claim for fatherland)
heady after slurping boot legged mead
wharf four hide hid bungle exceed
ding whacking thru jungle of lady love
until...making head way
verboten fruit fricasseed
stifled unnatural prime mate years
pent up sexual urge, thus did supercede
pitched, hitched, ditched
libido in throes of monkish celibacy,
procreating analogous to filigreed
custom made jewel,
thence sore relief yours truly did need
at seminal moment ejaculating seed
with snoop doggy dogg speed
generating prickly heat
inducing ***** fied stampede
appetite for reproduction
essentially kitty feed
bubbling self cleaning oven
after getting soused asthma gumweed
glommed, where male member
tiptoed thru tulips
playing biological equivalent
risque business "Russian roulette"
pregnancy eventually guaranteed.
Vocabulist nonalcoholic punchdrunk stupor January 1st, 2020
Unlike the vast population swath,
with painful hangover
average celebrant merely
doth confusedly blink,
who devoutly pledge
new year resolution
to give up drink
immediately fall off wagon
as he/she eagerly downs
shot after fermented shot
while forearms link
with family, friends,
strangers, et cetera
and immediately rethink
alcoholics anonymous pledge
gamely nod and playful wink.
Yours truly (me) never found
wasted, soused, besotted,
et cetera alone
and/or with round
of best buddies real,
and/or imaginary
nor got stone drunk crowned,
(cuz never did I make
friends - no lie),
plus never felt compunction
to quaff hard inebriant
(think booze hound)
life as extremely gawky introvert
(think long haired
pencil necked geek)
preferred company of books
with cute button nose bound
between pages, this theme
I could expound
till cows come home to roost
after bovines well rested
from their sound
sleep unready and unwilling
to confront battleground
(think slaughterhouse five),
thus beef rendered me, we clowned
and hoofed up memories
promising each other pound
for pound, we would stand our ground
never freeload, mooch, sponge...
nor EVER succumb to the bottle
no matter how hardbound,
especially when attaining rough-age
older not necessarily wiser
if necessary resorting and astound
ding farmer in the dell
to Diet of Worms smellbound
while reenacting Holy
Roman Empire called
back in the hay day -1521
courtesy Emperor Charles V
offering sobering admission
lips ne'er taste amber and/or clear
liquids of the gods, no matter
believe me you reader hopefully
aforesaid confession doth not dumbfound.
There’s SO MUCH Left to Learn!
There’s so much left to learn, dreams I hope I can share
that I haven’t touched yet, more new dawns still to bloom.
And I’m blessed by my muse when I pen rhymed verse too,
for rhyme brings life to bones I must stretch to connect.
It’s been seventeen years since fate graced me to meet
‘Kim Dung’ - love of my life (a beautician by trade).
Had we met at her work, had she guessed my past’s ease,
would dry tender have missed sparks that prejudice doused?
She had come on the arm of a quite wealthy friend
for a banquet, ‘First Night - La Boheme’ (more a guest
than a fan). Not a patron, I’d come with a friend
as fare’s fan (less true opera buff), more art’s fluke.
It was Puccini’s art that linked table for twelve,
but a gift of grace moved us through shadows we cast.
A false narrative tells us to hide or to dare,
but the ground felt secure when I entered the room
found my place by her side. Did her accent imbue
me with courage to ask this, did I disrespect
her to ask of her home? ‘Fait accompli’ was sweet!
She was from Vietnam. So I ventured I’d stayed
in Malaysia two years, thought war a disease,
and taught Physics to 12th Form in Peace Corps (not soused
to the eyeballs in ‘our way or die’). Why pretend
that war fosters the peace? Which one’s feared more, which blessed?
But connections got made there, that helped love attend.
The dark ghosts both still honored would fade with rebuke
from both sides as grace led us by grace to each delve
toward new art yet untasted, love’s light unsurpassed.
Brian Johnston
29th of December in 2021