The Slow Comedown

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Steeper, Stronger, Faster by Automobilist

The Slow Comedown

Here we are at last,
Upon the podium, as number one –
We may be shipping water fast,
But let’s enjoy our moment in the sun.

So here we are, complete,
With laurel wreaths on heads unbowed –
We may be dead upon our feet,
But let’s just grin and wave-out to the crowd.

So here we are, enthroned,
With medals hung and champagne sprayed –
We may be stumbling, leaden-boned,
But let’s not sleep and miss-out the parade.

So here we are, high noon,
With all our talent spent and flexed –
We may be all forgotten soon,
But let’s not worry now to what comes next.

Diabolical Appropriation

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Photo by Heber Vazquez on Pexels.com

Diabolical Appropriation

Ev’ry Halloween,
While I’m getting gory and undead
For just one night,
I always play a little game –
Ever since a teen,
While sat before the mirror, faking dread,
I take delight
In picturing all Hell the same –

It isn’t such a kink,
But I feel I ought to ’fess-up –
How I always love to think
That the demons love to dress-up
In their costumes made of discount shirts,
With crooked ties and polished shoes,
And glasses fit for introverts,
And parted hair, and no tattoos…

Ev’ry Halloween,
Do they spend the night pretending, posing,
To be us,
Just as we, tonight, aspire to be them –
So, if they are seen,
I really want to be try befriending those
Who copy us –
Because I guess they must admire us then…

Demons jostling on the trains,
With blinking phones and leaking pop,
And zig-zagging through mopey rains,
And queuing at the coffee shop.
In costumes made of good-enough,
And needs-a-press, and if-I-must –
Just demons that I love to love
As trying to be one of us.

The Thread of his Verbosity

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Self Portrait, Yawning by Joseph Ducreux;

The Thread of his Verbosity

Oh what a piece of work is man,
To stand upon the world’s-a-stage
And draw-out lines that lose their scan,
As ev’ry sentence takes an age.

Lend me your ears, I come to bury haste
Within the hollow crown –
For highbrow should be deathly-paced –
You fiery-footed steeds, slow down !

To be or not to be ?  Then not to be,
There’ll be no be tonight !
For ev’ry dry soliloquy
Shall take forever to recite.

What light from yonder window breaks ?
The Sun is up before I’m done.
I speak these word for all your sakes –
To drill them in, and damn your fun !

Is this a dagger I see before me,
Slashing pages from my text ?
But hold !, for still the crowds adore me
Droning-on one hour to next.

Out, out brief candle ?  Nay !
I still must ponder in my sorrow.
How long shall I have my say ?
Until tomorrow and tomorrow…

Plastic Horns

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Photo by Ksenia Chernaya on Pexels.com

Plastic Horns

Evil isn’t the Devil,
Isn’t the psycho,
Isn’t the neo-fascist –
Evil isn’t our darkest nature,
Lurking silent in our midst.
For evil is our lazy thinking,
Seeking-out a covert plan –
And evil is our pointing finger,
Evil is our bogeyman.

Evil isn’t the Devil,
Isn’t a something,
Isn’t an absolute.
It’s simply things we hate, writ large –
Hyperbole that birthed a brute.
For evil triumphs when the good do nothing new,
So tropes persist –
For the greatest trick the Devil pulled,
Was just to not exist.

Lesson

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Sermon on the Mount by Jim Collins

Lesson

I say unto you, not just he who kills,
Shall go to Hell.
But also he who harbours anger,
Even for a spell.
Call a man a fool, and that’s enough
For punishment eternal.
Likewise, give your cloak away,
Or face the flames infernal.
Lust after a women,
Even one who welcomes your attention,
And that lust is equal to adultery,
And Hell-detention.
An eye for an eye still stands,
But turn the other cheek for free –
Then pluck-out your eye and cut-off your hand
In macho purity.
Blessed are the peacemakers,
Unless you break the rules –
And then you’ll find no jot or tittle’s peace from God,
Ye fools !

Guising

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Alas, I have been unable to find out any more information about this postcard

Guising

Did people ever really think that spirits roam in late October ?
So the safest thing to do was simply blend-in where they tread ?
Or that their feeble efforts would fool anyone who’s half-way sober,
With no more than sheets and make-believe to raise the dead ?

Was it to fool the spirits ?, or the humans ?, or themselves ?
Or a warning to the Church that it was not so at-the-head ?
Perhaps the latent superstitions conjured up such elves
As an outlet in the face of poverty and mortal dread ?

I think we always knew it was a chance to have some fun,
And to dress-up and be mischievous, and stay-up late-of-bed.
Even those who still believed in spirits, saw through ev’ryone –
But let the children have their fun, and spare a crust of bread.

The word ‘mischievous’ needs to be stressed in its first syllable – MISS-chiv-ous. Some people pronounce it is miss-CHEEV-ee-ous, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with this – except in this case, as then the line won’t scan.

A Venus Key

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Steampunk Key by Turbosquid

A Venus Key

She has the key to my heart –
But just what does that mean ?
That my love is locked in a box, apart,
Unused, still mint, pristine ?
Or that my spring needs winding up,
Made taut and tense, and set to start ?
Or that my keyhole’s cup can sense
The subtle slide and gentle shove
From her cunning iron dart ?
From the only key that’s smart enough
To skeletise my love
With a twist of her art ?

‘Skeletise’ as in a skeleton key.

The Reichenbach Zombies

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The Death of Sherlock Holmes by Sidney Paget

The Reichenbach Zombies

They come, from out of the pages,
Lurching-on for centuries,
Reanimated for the ages
By the editors and mages
Harvesting our cherished memories.

Too valuable to rest in peace,
They’re resurrected, forced to dance –
But the spark of life is cold within,
And nothing but a rictus grin
Reminds us of that once and lost romance.

Spearleeks

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Eleven Garlic Scapes by Sheri Farabaugh

Spearleeks

The only way to dine on garlic
Ev’ry day or two,
Is to only visit friends who dine on garlic
Just like you.
So lace that bolognese another clove,
And stir it in that fry,
And then be sure to bring your friends around your stove
To have a try.
And don’t be so afraid to say très bon
When sharing peppy dips –
And don’t be shy to relish it when tasted on
Another’s lips.

Fall Back

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Mystery of Time by Robert Zietara

Fall Back

The clocks are haunting Daylight Savings,
Goading us to stay in bed –
In late October, ancient cravings
Rear their bureaucratic head.
We skirt with time, we loop the sands,
Rewind once more the ancient rite –
We must perform the dance of hands
Upon the face of waning light.

The past is haunting Daylight Savings,
Logic lost to undead rules.
In late October, we’re the playthings
Of the limbo hour of fools.
We flirt with time, yet so habitual,
Barely offer an excuse –
We must perform the sacred ritual,
Stop all Hell from breaking loose.