Over The Moon Darkly

On nights

Without a moon, I fear

 

The sight of the heavens fills me 

To surfeit. 

 

 

 

Huuklyeand Cinquor's "Full Medal Jackoffs"

Duty calls the poets 

To the front whenever hard- 

Line rabble-rousers appear— 

 

Dishonor awaits 

Those that dawdle, 

Displaying their pussy- 

 

Whipped corpuses to the other 

Pussies in the rear. 

 

 

 

Moderator’s comments: My beret goes off to il miglio fabbro* Huuk for this long-overdue devastating little bombshell of a poem aimed straight at the wishy-washy, nay, empurpled hearts of so many of my fellow poets who choose to sit out conflicts of conscience astride barbed wire fences—and to whom I can only say—have a goddamn heart, you blasted cockscombs, you’re getting too near! 

 

 *https://wasteland.windingway.org/dedication/il-miglior-fabbro

 

 

 

Coming Down To Earth (After Seferis)

Always oppressive 

Seemingly never- 

Ending slate 

Of charcoal grey 

Sky, let us all 

 

Rise a little 

Higher each day so 

We can see it’s never 

A question of arriving 

Too late.

Solid Solitary Projective Verse

Coming upon Cavafy’s 'Walls,"

One is struck not so much 

By its masterful construction— 

 

Each word firmly in its rightful place, 

As befits a master word mason—but how 

At the end of that brief monologue

 

On loss and involuntary solitude, 

If the reader has indeed attended 

To what is rightly taking place,

 

He finds himself right at home, 

Next to a singular silence 

He never dreamt was coming. 

 

 

 

 

 

Doublets (Les Misérables)

 

Such a waste always 

To never love to surfeit— 

 

Such a life wasted, 

To never know it.