David Swartz "RELIGION WITH AN EDGE"
biblicalfictions.com
Poetry for the Curious across the Religious Spectrum
SHAKSPER

ONE

 

Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night!

Comets, importing change of times and states,

Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky,

And with them scourge the bad revolting stars

That have consented unto Henry's death:

King Henry, the Fift, too famous to live long!

 

                                                       ))))) BEDFORD

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Even their Marlowe had children.  Old Morley who had cook'd

Up cankers.  His Tamburlaine?  A very mixèd bag.  The hag 'D

 

Have him, superficial Fame.  'D tam'd him sure enough.  Fierce

Justice to one who'd certain traduce the State—ah hah?  THEY

 

Plow'd HIS field with Friser's steel—the story's known?  And

Yet fully carv'd his name in stone, some sneaply jagged needle

 

In his eye.  This Shake won't try to emulate.  Christ knows I've

Fried that basilisk, that aspic.  And now the world will have ITS

 

Cleric.  All sniffer out for melancholy task, for ask—our public.

For lass or lad, God's wand IS pubic, a smack of hubric.  From

 

Crack to rubric?  Whiff-wit, lubric.  One stanza's finished.  Odd 

God, by Death alone Your Vast irregular itch is not diminished.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWO

 

You are deceiv'd, my substance is not here;

For what you see is but the smallest part

And least proportion of humanity.

I tell you, madam, were the whole frame here,

It is of such a spacious lofty pitch,

Your roof were not sufficient to contain't.

 

                                                    ))))) TALBOT

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Contain a sour old refrain with just his works?  For Shake, your

Prey's tame, more game for forks.  Grant him butt of sack, he'll

 

Scour scant AM.  Amen to bed at 10, to rise at lately 4 PM, fuss

Of sorts with Fletcher on the margin, salivating for his harping,

 

Celestial carping, effetely, with the likes of Ben, with phlegm,

                     Its soul, effeminate rascal!  Then again, the theatre's in control,

 

                   Poor lads their lasses' making.  Some Worm their Masses Shake

Is shaking!  You'd think it Aeschylus he's faking!  Old GREEK,

 

This frump, had mystery by the One, a calcification of syrup on

HIS thumb, ON middle finger.  Even his pyrrhic lyric [fear it?]

 

Tends to linger.  Old Burbage, I'd gauge, has hired the singer—

Snow below HER fork?—PAH!  Your turn to cringe—THERE!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THREE

 

Would curses kill, as doth the mandrake groan,

I would invent as bitter searching terms,

As curst, as harsh, and horrible to hear,

Deliver'd strongly through my fixed teeth,

With full as many signs of deadly hate,

As lean-fac'd Envy in her loathsome cave.

 

                                                       ))))) SUFFOLK

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You would observe my plumage? quills on a gosling—this dark

Pit, this knot, this tangle of ebony fire, this blaze, this suffering.

 

And you wonder why I'm Shaksper?  This solipsistic welt, this

Paean.  That Soul'd wield Soul, that ache would dare to shriek,

 

That wound'd leak—that were it enough to speak, a poet simply

Streak the multifoliate heav'ns—there out there, or here in here

 

The chasm that they'll probe for unknown eons!  And for what

I ask?  Some 13 dramas for the subtle courtier, 10 for a bastard

 

Groundling?  See where they bait their bear?  Some twisted day

Some moment in massive mass, they'll borrow titles from Lady

 

Virgin-saint, ill-self, our Mother, harlot pinned to steely Cross

Scatological loss, the cost forsaken—see where they take Him?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FOUR

 

The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.

 

                                                           ))))) JACK CADE

 

Nay, that I mean to do.  Is not this a lamentable thing, that of the skin of an innocent lamb should be made parchment?

That parchment, being so scribbled o'er, should undo a man?

 

                                                                   ))))) DICK, the butcher

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cade 'D broken EGGS to make his omelet.  Relegated letter'd

Fools to insurrection's gauntlet.  The heap 'S steep.  Sadly lost

 

His head.  THIS seer's NOT for politics or liturgy, have nobles,

Clergy proceed in usual habit's bitchery.  AND though critique

 

Is often on his tongue, against the aged OR the young, the utter

Udder's circumspect.  I'll not regret just yet— POCKET lucre,

 

Simply succor.  WHAT in ordure, scribbler's standing sector's

Lector, podium?  This calling would be odium, every Johannes

 

Truly Factotum.  My rule of slippery thumb? amply insert, but

Keep the bitter sugared with a hit of WIT, the pork its salt—&

 

Mercy to the lot in charge, pubic or public largely large, collect

Its wages—leave statement to the sanctioned, LAUD the sages!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FIVE

 

Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade

Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy

To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?

O yes, it doth, a thousandfold it doth. . . .

His viands sparkling in a golden cup,

His body couched in a curious bed,

When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him.

 

                                                        ))))) HENRY VI

 

 

 

 

 

The blade that severs fact and fact—unalloyed, transfigured act,

One apish convolution—WHO'D breathe God's truest scent, 'D

 

Sirè Nature's lapse—say hired man's chariot, MULES perhaps,

                    His rudimentary sled, and destined dreams, 1 hired man's night,

 

                     To fast, to wake, BREAK-fast with hired man's WIFE, quench

Thirst at her rushing creek—'tis hardy, hardly cloyed by sweet.

 

For tortured Richard, Henry Sixt, for jewelèd State.  Who'd cap

Their skull with Crown, their brawn with plate, their yawn with

 

Linen, silk, milk of a choicest vinic [my kingly mimic] & there,

There breeds MY limit, a husk, an edge, cut where you skin it—

 

The tale BE seizure, idiot's Shaksper, born of excessive leisure,

Whelped from closure—half a century—once lad, NOW gentry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SIX

 

Sail how thou canst, have wind and tide thy friend,

This hand, fast wound about thy coal-black hair

Shall, while thy head is warm and new cut off,

Write in the dust this sentence with thy blood:

"Wind-changing Warwick now can change no more."

 

                                                             ))))) EDWARD  IV

 

 

 

 

 

Our Samson laid up riches in unruly hair till wan Delilah robbed

Him of his strength and locks, till Legend laid him blindly down,

 

A crush of stone those marble blocks.  These days perhaps he'd

Waste in stocks? in wooden pantaloons—they'd flay him by the

 

 Jagged moon, heap timber, twig and coal—toast his solemn soul.

Enough!  He'd find the going tough.  They'd rough him up a bit,

 

& sit him down to eat his. . . !  'Tis not I care a whit—for Habit

Fits occasion [from searing pain to Christian nation, from blood

 

To wafer].  Take hardy soul indeed to alter either court or savior!

Morley's roommate on the rack, from manuscript to base attack,

 

From simply greed to sacrilege—"Was Chris cook'd up the grisly

Fudge, the act, the fact— just torch his papers?  Sniff the vapors."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SEVEN

 

The owl shriek'd at thy birth, an evil sign;

The night-crow cried, a boding luckless time;

Dogs howled, and hideous tempests shook down trees. . . .

Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born,

To signify thou camst to bite the world. . . .

 

                                                       ))))) HENRY VI

 

Down, down to hell, and say I sent thee thither. . . .

 

                                                            ))))) RICHARD III

 

 

 

 

 

Our current ambience leaves small place for face.  Internal hare

Lips MAR a savior's grace. Disfigured by our thought all seems

 

Is ought.  The palace, despair, admits TAUT chambers for their

Caught & cloven bitch bites mercy, praise.  As such I spend my

 

Days, intoning mantras for the lost.  And price?  Exceeds Their

Cost—we're bridesmaid to the gloom.  Heiress utters.  Udders

 

Groom.  At every school desk tests an errant scholar, cops his

Lessons—diligence, guessing?  The best lack ALL conviction,

 

Curse?  Or blessing.  Vegetable incisors snap the worst.  Study

IS long and romance terse.  I'D inch toward you with pleasure

 

        On MY fingers.  You'd offer breast.  Massage the rest.  Or beat 

  Your chest.  Rig the test?  Mastery would vigor—talents figure!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

EIGHT

 

O Lord, methought what pain it was to drown. . . .

Methoughts I saw a thousand fearful wracks;

A thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon; . . .

Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,

All scatt'red in the bottom of the sea:

Some lay in dead men's skulls, and in the holes

Where eyes did once inhabit. . . .

                                      reflecting gems

That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep,

And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatt'red by.

 

                                                           ))))) CLARENCE

 

 

 

 

Brute Death is not a proper way to die.  One yearns for a slice of

Decorum, a sumptuous casket, stiff procession, some husky lads

 

To heft one toward the rest.  Orotundly sprinkled o'er the grave,

The measured word, a pomp.  And then to rot in secret, stink in

 

Stealth.  For friends a viewing prior to the Dark—rosy of cheek,

Well-fitted sleek or plump, not unceremoniously dumped in the

 

Blackest swarthy pit, communed with fish or worm in league of

It, the common breed of canker.  And Death herself politely SO

 

One'd praise her.  Dim, yet dim! but sunk to that weird abode in

Measured tugs.  One brings to mind your trodden spotted toad—

 

Squeezed through a lithe girl's toes, an ochre, a golden mess—

Say, Lord of hosts, a sanctity.  And then I'D surely thank Thee.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NINE

 

From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept

A hell-hound that doth hurt us all to death. . . .

How do I thank thee that this carnal cur

Preys on the issue of his mother's body. . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray,

To have him suddenly convey'd from hence.

Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I pray,

That I may live and say, "The dog is dead."

 

                                                            ))))) MARGARET

 

 

 

 

                     How often offspring come to mind, Ham-Judith, the regal kind.

                    The deaf, the blind, the very young—R. III, the came the come. 

 

Hunchback, Ariel, dwarf to spirit, flesh & fell flesh—flounce?

                     I'd fear it.  Close is distant, lyric, chords.  Bred or birth, some

 

80 Bards.  Scribble, order, living-directives to the captive free,

Incest and survival, perjury.  Some thirty kings, usurious Jew,

 

Clown to goad a gypsy—2?  Empire, conquest, clean, obscene!

Antony given, Caesar birth, ghosts imperious in the Earth; ASS

 

Will claim an ass's motion, Francis Bacon, Earl, Southhampton.

Brutus, Cassius, Edward, Blunt, the gesture bed-ward, tame the

 

Stunt.  Maugre mousehunt, vant and sottish—words I've coin'd

For Pompey's hotties.  Scraped the Welsh scotched the Scotties.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                    TEN

 

The lights burn blue.  It is now dead midnight.

Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.

What do I fear?  Myself?  There's none else by.

Richard loves Richard, that is, I am I.

Is there a murtherer here?  No.  Yes, I am.

Then fly.  What, from myself?  Great reason why—

Lest I revenge.  What, myself upon myself?

Alack, I love myself.  Wherefore? . . .

 

                                                            ))))) RICHARD III

 

 

 

 

 

No clean margin twixt wicked and the good?  Ill deeds arise, as

Pleasure as from could.  In our mute world one lives from loss

 

Toshould, or loss again—the wheel must turn.  It grinds world

Soul to Death.  HERE.  Stop.  I catch my breath.  Servile MAN

 

Must pander to the weak.  A poet yearns but money speaks.  &

Avarice hollers?  Few nuns repent; I can't absent the scholars.

 

We strut, ah strut, but eat the dust.  We strut again.  'Tis room

For hubris in the Devil's pen.  Richard flays Richard, Duncan

 

Self.  A wormy volume's on the shelf.  And false is true.  'Tis

Covet the Lord, not simply Jew.  'Tis COVET the Saint while

 

Murder Christ.  For bread's bread, no matter sliced.  Or wine

Is wine but often blood.  THIS lecture ends with God IS God!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ELEVEN

 

Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote;

Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs,

And as a bed I'll take them, and there lie,

And in that glorious supposition think

He gains by death that hath such means to die. . . .

 

                                                                        ))))) ANTIPHOLUS, of S.                                      

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Infatuation is a heady mix—mourns the joker, shakes the fixed.

A monolith of Darkness framed in Beauty; vast supernal AM's

 

Duty.  The latter cloaks GOD'S Paradise, even the former cut to

Size.  Ah, what bites the eyes?  That even plainest wench seems

 

Boundless prize?  Truer Triumph just skin deep.  Muddle Reigns

The court of Love, Satan above—for greatness sleeps?  Grant me 

 

An hour with this heady state, I'd trade some 50 Annes for such

A mate.  My first-best bed, dark Lady, sonnets—youthful vigor,

 

Rumblings on it.  Some hundred motions of the marriage knot—

'D change the key or slip the lock.  And framed by fever that the

 

Flesh is just—whelp'd for humble, bred to dust—simply an hour

With this random sweet?  I've HAD the lad, was grand DECEIT.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWELVE

 

Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid

For that good hand thou sent'st the Emperor.

Here are the heads of the two noble sons,

And here's thy hand, in scorn to thee sent back—

Thy grief their sports! Thy resolution mock'd!

              

                                   ))))) MESSENGER

 

Ha, ha, ha!

 

                       ))))) TITUS

 

Why dost thou laugh?

 

                             ))))) MARCUS

 

Why, I have not another tear to shed.

 

 

 

                   Were Richard not enough, I'd grant them Titus, malevolence or,

Better, Titusitus.  A world out there has tail wind for its victims.

 

This ghastly bird must serve just as it clips 'M.  Titus must host

His horrid dinner.  EYE for an eye?  No, ratchet up the winner.

 

Our Yahweh serves as master.  GRIM God indeed that coveted

Disaster.  An utter banquet plies Shake's starkly rhetorical asp

 

There.  Where scribbling counts and lesser wits cry PASTOR.

Or simply clasp her.  'D jam my NOSE in their ambition, have

 

Shaky sniff, nudge stiff contrition.  Their upstart crow has ALL

That fancy plumage?  Even old Morley homed for homage.  I'll

 

Give my groundlings all THEY shriek.  Thresh pockets, this old

 Sinner.  Where has he been?  The fat are fat and thin are thinner.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THIRTEEN

 

Forward, I pray, since we have come so far,

And be it moon, or sun, or what you please,

And if you please to call it a rush-candle,

Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me.

 

                                                            ))))) KATHERINE

 

I say it is the moon.

 

                                                        ))))) PETRUCIO

 

                                I know it is the moon.

 

                                                           ))))) KATHERINE

 

Nay then you lie; it is the blessed sun.

 

                                                        ))))) PETRUCIO

 

The God be blest, it is the blessed sun. . . .

 

 

There was a wench that married with a Mussulman.  He kept her

Solemn toes to crown.  Pius, chin to double chin, 'F wench dare  

 

Stroll abroad.  Thrashed her DAILY with a wire and rod.  Their

Brood themselves?  Were commandeer'd TO observations of a

 

Life NO comrades fear'd.  This Mussulman was TRULY weird. 

Her parents claimed he—demons.  The leak of all man qualified

 

As semen.  Was even foul, a stink of fester'd wound.  Were best

It never meddl'd with her womb.  Ten grandchildren, the couple

 

 Generated.  And YET the wench was virgin venerated.  Her dam

Could not address her in the street.  Was seldom pork they dar'd

 

To eat.  The hubby claim'd no sack 'D buy; sous'd like Satan on

 The sly.  Some ugliness I can't repeat—perhaps I turn the cheek?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FOURTEEN

 

I am asham'd that women are so simple

To offer war where they should kneel for peace,

Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway,

When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.

Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth,

Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,

But that our soft conditions and our hearts,

Should well agree with our external parts?

 

                                                             ))))) KATHERINE

 

 

 

 

Vive la différence!  'Tis what it's All about.  They'd have their

Gams sprout hair, all voice descend & muscles deepen, cloven

 

Thighs a dangle—such is their angle, that lasses fail to muster

Hoarsely peculiar sort? 'tis no great mystery.  And have wench

 

Failed or neuter?  Not THAT cute—or?  Ah God, to stroke her

Velvet skin—AND lust for stubble?  A bland congruence in the

 

Touch, for goose OR gander such; it fails to focus.  An old slut

Shut of locus.  Or sniveling wretch?  When largely enlightened

 

Witch would wince at such a WIT-less hocus pocus.  'D raise a

Fit.  Come, lass, this leg is stout enough, come sit.  Those louts

 

Would choke us.  The world is closing in on Cleopatras!  'D had

Us truer-tremble at her smiles, at softer wiles—on MATTRESS!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FIFTEEN

 

. . . Here's a large mouth indeed,

That spits forth death and mountains, rocks and seas,

Talks as familiarly of roaring lions

As maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs!

What cannoneer begot this lusty blood?

He speaks plain cannon-fire, and smoke, and bounce,

He gives the bastinado with his tongue. . . .

Zounds, I was never so bethump'd with words

Since I first call'd my brother's father dad.

 

                                                                      ))))) PHILIP, the Bastard

 

 

 

 

Let's speak of ambiguity's bivalence, of civic Duty, chance, a

Halting disposition, Lord, a King.  Or talk of deposition, cling,

 

A hornet's sting.  How blood 'S often lesser clot than kind, or

Power clings to Fortune more than mind, that Regal will might

 

Alter overnight—how Altar itself succumbs to slight, and Gods

Division dark, partition bright, or trust the Tried.  That good 'S

 

Odd, that evil bends to Fate, OF such the fragile Fortune of the

State.  That Host Itself plays havoc with the just, that HUMAN

 

Misery is a treadmill in the dust, that spleen's obscene yet often

                    Must, often spoken, seldom Hymen, oft-caught, shortly broken,

 

Whence the agent BUTin Greed, an inclination of the knees—I

Speak of Princely generation, Regal force YET wayward Seed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SIXTEEN

 

Death, death.  O amiable lovely death!

Thou odoriferous stench! sound rottenness!

Arise forth from the couch of lasting night,

Thou hate and terror to prosperity,

And I will kiss thy detestable bones. . . .

And ring these fingers with thy household worms, . . .

And be a carrion monster like thyself.

 

                                                             ))))) CONSTANCE

 

 

 

 

 

There's nothing LESS sure-footed than a man who needs to DIE.

Knotted rope or drowning, death by fire—all else bravado.  They

 

Made SO very much of Hamlet; the truer story's Hamnet.  Take

The word of one that's lost his son, who'd trade this living FOR

 

HIS Darkness.  And HOW it crowds the mind, all loss, defeat, all

Terminal schematic.  Chew crystal chandelier, swallow lye, resort

 

To fumes in a shallow tent—there's small means escape the ache

And grinding toward it.  Poison?  All TYPE—banewort, arsenic,

 

Nightshade, Paris green; no manner that you'd share it with; a rat

Would quite suffice; one's sanity's on ice.  And yet resolve to see

 

It OVER?  'D hunker down in sinister domain, a blight, a blast, a

Canker.  One prays for Death for Worm to come, and thanks Her!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SEVENTEEN

 

                 . . . for within the hollow crown

That rounds the mortal temples of a king

Keeps Death his court, and there the antic sits,

Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,

Allowing him a breath, a little scene,

To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks,

Infusing him with self and vain conceit,

As if this flesh which walls about our life

Were brass impregnable; and humor'd thus,

Comes at the last and with a little pin

Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!

 

                                                           ))))) RICHARD II

 

 

 

 

Vulnerability of mortal Pride, odd Nature's matricide or Bride

Or slaughter [Nature taught her?], imperious, denied, frail Cut

 

Whose name is Woman.  Who suffers so much omen!  Courier.

Courtier?  Currier?  Paramount elixir.  Fierce antipode to hope.

 

I'D shatter mirror that enacts my Error, grant teeth to lineage,

Slit faint with Savage, endure God's ravage, curtail all rancor,

 

Will courage melt, have putrefaction falter, smelt breach with

Render, brass covet, SEND HER?  Turn back Devil from the

 

Very durance that is Human, repulse the Demon, wrench It to

NO men.  Cold as quiescence, this carnal nuisance, this ache,

 

This Wound, topography of Being—if even courtly Hauteur's

Bitch'd, or fleeting?  Cold God forgive the itch'd I'm Fleeing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

EIGHTEEN

 

I'll give my jewels for a set of beads,

My gorgeous palace for a hermitage,

My gay apparel for an almsman's gown,

My figur'd goblets for a dish of wood,

My scepter for a palmer's walking staff,

My subjects for a pair of carved saints,

And my large kingdom for a little grave,

A little little grave, an obscure grave. . . .

 

                                                            ))))) RICHARD II

 

 

 

 

 

The problem One encounters with the Fact IS Fact enacts.  One

Yearns to AIR one's grievance, and ends with noose OR similar

 

Contrivance.  That KING is mortal 'D seem slight if manifested.

And yet 'tis not a truth that easily attested.  Your FOOL himself

 

Is ward unto the State.  Can't State berate.  There's too much on

His PLATE.  Our Richard 'D yearn for one small grave?  ONE

 

Broaches brave, retreats from torture.  OLD Morley's end WAS

Lesson enough for scribbler.  They stabbed his EYE, THE Bait,

 

The nibbler.  'Tis fear this monologue could reach a public—for

Public's raw and often cubic.  And brains will soften in the end!

 

Take heed, my friend!  Better a servant than the Master.  Better

 Disaster.  A slave might spit.  The Master's spittle smacks of it. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NINETEEN

 

Come, night, come, Romeo, come, thou day in night,

For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night,

Whiter than new snow upon a raven's back.

Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'd night,

Give me my Romeo, and, when I shall die,

Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he will make the face of heaven so fine

That all the world will be in love with night,

And pay no worship to the garish sun.

 

                                                   ))))) JULIET

 

 

 

 

 

Romeo glitters in the captive night.  Sweetest Juliet ravish'd by

The SIGHT.  In time their SOULS take flight.  'Tis Time which

 

Humbles this.  Time eats their tender flesh.  Splendor IS fresh!

Eternity survives.  Worms eat their eyes?  Who lilts across the

 

Boards?  If Armageddon's lute intones, what chords?  BE more

                    Than Death erase the setting.  BE More than sleep.  The lass 'L

 

Stroke her lover.  PATTERN bleeds.  Shaksper has vanquished

Rot.  Some pair of saints this scribbler's wrought.  Such purity

 

Will vast for ages.  Story itself will stun the Sages.  Scatter the

Stuff of youth across the heavens.  OPAL, sapphire, youth will

 

Leaven.  Texture cannot break.  Some EONS captive audience

                      Will ache.  'L ache on fire?  Nothing can cancel Bright desire.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWENTY

 

Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day. . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Yond light is not day-light, I know it, I;

It is some meteor that the sun exhal'd

To be to thee this night a torch-bearer

And light thee on thy way to Mantua.

Therefore stay yet, thou need'st not to be gone.

 

                                                  ))))) JULIET 

 

 

 

 

 

All poignancy of parting IS what I hoped to trace.  TO greet the

Very sun?  The flicker on its face.  Two children caught in love,

 

A crueler sky.  Parting their very last, for night has passed; they

Can't know why.  The tale includes TWO lovers and a wedding

 

Night, Death in the warming chill of ill daylight.  Some jealous

God were actively their Fate.  The meal consum'd were WHAT

 

It ate.  Separation plies its golden rod.  'Tis odd but God is God,

The split's complete.  An HOUR nears on trembling feet.  THIS

 

Loving minute flashes at their skulls.  The moment's TART; the

Deed controls.  Jesu was Christ to this sad pair—FOR Southern

 

Homage strok'd the air.  The air was air, bitter as the limitation

Strangling Broad Fate.  Two souls consumed by what they ate!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWENTY-ONE

 

Alack, alack, is it not like that I,

So early waking—what with loathsome smells,

And shrikes like mandrakes' torn out of the earth,

That living mortals, hearing them, run mad—

O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,

Environed with all these hideous fears,

And madly play with my forefather's joints,

And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud,

And in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone,

As with a club, dash out my desp'rate brains?

 

                                                  ))))) JULIET

 

 

 

 

 

Desperately loath to life without her lover, ekes deadly Chance

With potion, a tentative, remedial, Death, yet fears some MAD

 

Attendance on its breath, proximity of ROT, of stench [ill-fated

Wench].  A wrench to chance, to circumstance, a missive's late

 

Arrival; scant promise of revival, appointment with sanctioned

Arbiter and Cleric.  FEW wax hysteric!  Delicti Corpus IN the

 

Tomb, lately groomed for Tybalt.  The argument is omen—To

Rejoin her lately lover, estrangement perhaps from kith, small

 

Lapse in an odd entrenchment.  But wake TO sleep, TO death,

His merchant, to steep in crypt, MORE, moulder.  Wedded to

GHASTLY bridal MATE, whirled by eddies of an Astral state,

Utter udder, TO speak, to shriek, TO leak—to mutter shudder!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWENTY-TWO

 

Or if there were a sympathy in choice,

War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,

Making it momentary as a sound,

Swift as a shadow, short as any dream,

Brief as the lightning in the coiled night,

That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth;

And ere a man hath power to say "Behold!"

The jaws of death do devour it up:

So quick bright things come to confusion.

 

                                                          ))))) LYSANDER

 

 

 

 

The Good were like a COMET creasing blackest night, comma

Alm-a, glitter scattering light.  Resorts to such in verse are like

 

Inscriptions on a hearse.  ALL substance wars, 'D wield an end

There.  And coffins soften.  Though much is laughter, sweet, all

 

                    Levities fear pain clots the throat, summons to mortal tears, that

Fears devour Elysium.  Who spasms titter, wheeze, finds Death

 

The proper tease, AND anguish baits.  A prating sorrow's in the

Wings, awaits its summons to reenter.  Grief WILL certain heed

 

Her cue & trod the boards.  Scenes shift if laughter's bored.  Ill

Dons her formal threads [the casual seldom adorns ITS deads].

 

Misery's itch? a Proper lotion.  Stun, Sum, ALL prayer is pitch,

 Devotion!  Come players, seldom the stately knows the motion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWENTY-THREE

 

Now, until the break of day,

Through this house each fairy stray,

To the best bride-bed will we,

Which by us shall blessed be,

And the issue, there create,

Ever shall be fortunate,

So shall all the couples three

Ever true in loving be;

And the blots of Nature's hand

Shall not in their issue stand,

Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar,

Nor mark prodigious, such as are

Despised in nativity,

Shall upon their children be.

 

                                                      ))))) OBERON

 

 

 

Now this charming farce may be rooted in actuality.  Issue of all

Blessed weddings have their share OF couple's blessings.  FEW

 

Can earn eternal bliss.  Behind the arras LIES a kiss.  Deform'd

Lambkins, blots a'plenty.  Should you wonder what I meant—"

 

He spoiled the drama's full effect!  Keep'm on the margin, Sect.

FLAY such simples, grab their throats.  Bride with pimples, off

 

Spring Goats?  Naïvetè such nativity.  Enough of Doggerel twixt

The story.  Syntax wanes and Rhyming's Gory.  Syntax suffers,

 

Rhyming's rotten.  Free the Verse, curse what it got him.  Father

Son AND Holy Ghost, treat this Bard like careless toast.  Father

 

Son AND Holy Spirit, trim the sail before you steer it.  Trim the

Wobbly Ship of State.  Children, devour what's ON your Plate."

                                                                                             

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWENTY-FOUR

 

          . . . I am a Jew.  Hath not a Jew eyes?  Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, heal'd by the same means, warm'd and cool'd by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is?  If you prick us, do we not bleed?  If you tickle us, do we not laugh?  If you poison us, do we not die?  And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?  If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that.  If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility?  Revenge.  If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example?  Why, revenge.  The villainy you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.

 

                                                        ))))) SHYLOCK

 

 

 

 

I am an Arab.  Hath not an Arab eyes?  Hath Arab hands, heart,

Brain?  Eats he not selfsame bread?  And if you cut his throat is

 

He not dead?  If harm a Jew, 'D latter not revenge?  And Arab

Then?  If you shoot me will I not bleed?  If I wax usurious will

 

It not be counted Greed?  Jew is often thus condemn'd.  Have I

Nor Jew the means to make amends?  Hath Jew not Friend?  Or

 

Arab soil the very spirit that he lends?  OFT-imputed Christian

Turns the cheek?  Must Jew or Arab seethe for just a WEEK?  I

 

HAVE no daughter?  Hath JEW not Father?  'D Arab disrespect

Jew's very Mother?  Shoes REST upon the threshold of EVERY

 

Arab house.  Fault Jew for lusting to be clean?  Why Arab?  'Tis

Hardly sacrilege in ANY Faith to starve this Parable of breadth?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWENTY-FIVE

 

You have among you many a purchas'd slave,

Which like your asses, and your dogs and mules,

You use in abject and in slavish parts,

Because you bought them.  Shall I say to you,

"Let them be free!  Marry them to your heirs!

Why sweat they under burthens?  Let their beds

Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates

Be season'd with such viands"?  You will answer,

"The slaves are ours."  So do I answer you:

The pound of flesh which I demand of him

Is dearly bought as mine, and I will have it.

 

                                                       ))))) SHYLOCK

 

 

 

Small latitude in the Fundament.  Anatomy's flawed.  SAD men

Mount.  OFTEN feels the Manly fool, his WIFE was bartered—

 

Like his tools.  Wife's machine, yet where's the purpose?  Major

Purchase; wrap it rotten?  Godly gotten.  To FILTH a slave is oft

 

Discrete.  Lift the Holy to its proper seat [most SIT downward to

Excrete].  Partner, for some is ruddy chattel.  The war of sexes—

 

There's the battle! [ankle itself for some is prurient].  Vaster item

To the fundament.  Flog Koran, Bible, Gita, Vedas.  Short of it is

 

Lust for ladies.   Extended often immolation.  Some Billion souls

For Each persuasion.  A medium is SPLIT the Queen.  For girl's

 

Unclean!  Surly at 7, 9 obscene.  Bury her heart in a pink Chadur.

Purchase virgin, Bury whore—her Wedding night is Rarely Pure.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWENTY-SIX

 

But mercy is above this sceptred sway,

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute of God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God's

When mercy seasons justice.  Therefore, Jew,

Through justice be thy plea, consider this,

That in the course of justice, none of us

                                                                Should see salvation. . . .

                                                                                                                    

                                                                                                               ))))) PORTIA

 

 

 

 

The age-old argument, scarcely cloak'd, of Motivation vs. Deed.

A Jew would have a pound of Flesh.  The Edge of need is hardly

 

Fresh.  One can't traduce the State.  Is kosher menu fit the plate?

Jesus were Jew in ODD men's eyes?  Joseph himself a Christian

 

                    Prize?  Paternity the holy Ghost.  Then Godly enough the Christ

For most.  This Portia seems meant as hypocrite, who'd slept on

 

Silk and dreamt on grit.  Tattle the tale, endure the message.  A

Christian founders in her presage.  A Jew would bend to service

 

Fortune, to tan his hide, to Portia-portion.  Pilate, the Great, had

Cleansed his grip.  The Holy Land's a Frightful trip.  We SANK

 

Some millions, Jews-for-Jesus.  The faithful there still tease us!

Still seize and squeeze us!  Shyer the lock but the story pleases!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWENTY-SEVEN

 

              . . . That he is old, the more the pity, his white hairs do witness it, but that he is, saving your reverence, a whoremaster, that I utterly deny.  If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked!  If to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I know is damn'd.  If to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh's lean kine are to be lov'd.  No, my great lord, banish Pero, banish Bardolph, banish Poins, but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being as he is old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry's company, banish not him thy Harry's company—banish plump Jack, and banish all the world.

 

                                                                                                                         ))))) FALSTAFF

 

 

 

 

 

Fat Jack a geriatric marvel?  Brandish your hymnals at the great

Revival.  An author's age proclaims the man.  No simpleton this

 

Falstaff, catch as can.  Sweet-kind, true-valiant, FAT Jack struts

The boards.  This comic giant!  Strum the chords.  For some 'tis

 

Snivel to avoid attack; 'TIS mean for many, charm'd for JACK.

Or fancy many preen at 80?  Then where's the fault—he nabbed

 

The bait, HE!  Seldom ignores God's wayward mirror.  'Tis odd

For some, draws audience nearer.  Jack & Harry, Jack & prince

 

Jack the fairly God his Pater, Jack the wonder, fortune's quince!

Come take the bite, avoid the SEED.  The PLUM has juice, one

 

                    Lauds the Deed!  For grave cannot contain his soul, nor fire nor

Ash, nor hassle, hole.  'Tis Jack you'll carry— Newcastle, Coal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWENTY-EIGHT

 

                       . . . and now my whole charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of companies—slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where the glutton's dogs lick'd his sores, and such as indeed were never soldiers, but discarded unjust servingmen, younger sons to younger brothers, revolted tapsters, and ostlers trade-fall'n, the cankers of a calm world and a long peace, ten times more dishonorable ragged than an old feaz'd ancient: and such have I. . . .  A mad fellow met me on the way and told me I had unloaded all the gibbets and press'd the dead bodies.  No eye had seen such scarecrows.

 

                                                                                                                         ))))) FALSTAFF

 

 

 

 

 

 

Would Zombies take up Battle, soulless tottering stiffs that Clank and

Rattle, snick of arthritic joints, a Dreadful tortured Dance of PUTRID

 

Flesh, a shriek, ungainly aching?  Some heedless hoard unseemly cock

               À roaches, fuzzed, despicable, creaking toward certain Ruin?  And 'D

 

Cease upon the Fray, desist, resist in ghastly retreat, make HEAD for

Closest house of sale, for tapster?  Plug awful Leaks of some Grosser

 

Fell disaster?  This Falstaff commands a Troop!  What mendacity 'D

Render Troop regroup?  This legion of the lost, hideous umbilicus of

 

The damn'd, a Hellish screw of sorts, some Plaintive saint, or Corpse

Perhaps, taste of lapse, cosmic hare lip of the crass.  And should God

 

Shudder?  Such ragged crew of crows would covet Cover.  'Tis WAR

Or fodder?  Siren of Death requires NUN other.  Her wretched Lover? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TWENTY-NINE

 

     Why, thou owest God a death.

 

                                                                                                      ))))) PRINCE HAL

 

'Tis not due yet, I would be loath to pay him before his day.  What need I be so forward with him that calls not on me?  Well, 'tis no matter, honor pricks me on.  Yea, but how if honor prick me off when I come on? how then? Can honor set to a leg?  No.  Or an arm?  No.  Or take away the grief of a wound?  No.  Honor hath no skill in surgery then?  No. What is honor?  A word. What is in that word honor?  What is that honor?  Air.  A trim reckoning!  Who hath it?  He that died a' Wednesday.  Doth he feel it?  No.  Doth he hear it?  No.  'Tis insensible then?  Yes, to the dead.  But will't not live with the living?  No.  Why?  Detraction will not suffer it.  Therefore I'll none of it, honor is a mere scutcheon.  And so ends my catechism.

                                                                                       

                                                                                                        ))))) FALSTAFF

 

 

 

 

The least Jack lacked is onerous honor.  You mount a steed, ARE

Likely on her.  Stallion himself is certain on Him.  The cost's the

 

Same; the price is GRIM.  Filly castrato?  Gelding FACT—OH?

Were better golden where fat Jack is headed.  By sword or pistol,

 

Rope, he's Dead'd.  The latter has her take on this.  'Tis just that

Hard to fake a kiss.  Curt courage engaged Cain unto Abel.  'Tis

 

Calmer goner, read the label [SURELY a Master's up for libel].

The lesson on This syllabus is pride, possession, steep.  Missive

 

Festive, awake, asleep.  Falstaff has mores topsy-turvy.  Book a

Passage, end in scurvy.  Paradise is fodder in the cannon's jaw.

 

Breast is udder; Death is Law.  Destined for an island, mind the

Prize.  Some lost their legs; 4 heads are eggs, scaled up to Size!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THIRTY

 

     Did he break out into tears?

 

                                                                                                                 ))))) LEONATO

 

     In great measure.

 

                                                                                                                  ))))) MESSENGER

 

     A kind overflow of kindness.  There are no faces truer than those that are so wash'd.  How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping.

 

                                                                                                                 ))))) LEONATO

 

 

 

 

Schadenfreude!  Iago lived it.  Edmund lived for it.  My Judith?

Ask'd fine Lady if she'd Stay in Stratford.  Her Smile an Asp's

 

"Perhaps."  By Christ, she wriggled in her seat.  All this scribble

Hardly worth it.  These dramas see the light and then they wane.

 

The upper levels have their taste.  Groundlings have their OWN.

And mill about, consum'd by vittles, sack, the latest QUIP, The

 

Fashions.  What's In what's Out—Lear had it Right.  These Off

Sprung for the better weather and a dose of plague.  A winsome

 

Smile, a nod.  They'd have me Zeus, or Jupiter—since just last

Year verboten, "God."  And didn't I pull it off for them?  FOR

 

Hamnet, Judith, Anne?  For one dark lady.  For Southhampton.

Time comes one's Sick of it.  Just then I'm in the THICK of it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THIRTY-ONE

 

     Come, Balthasar, we'll hear that song again.

                                                                    

                                                                                                                 ))))) DON PEDRO

 

                  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 

     Now, divine air! now is his soul ravish'd!  Is it not strange that sheep's guts should hale souls out of men's bodies? . . .

 

                                                                                                                  ))))) BENEDICK

 

 

 

 

Dear Jesu, am I sick of courtly wit.  This Benedick would drown in

It.  There are some, like Ben, who'd find this business artful.  'TIS

 

Sad!  For grown man lifts to dizzy heights a piece of fluff, Mote in

In the grand connection.  From MUCH ADO to LABOR'S LOST,

 

& drain the Papal coffers.  The lads that strut, the utter chaos they

Engender in Morley or his like.  For What?  That Lady can Unfurl

 

Her fan, adjust her Fundament, her bosom.  The project's scarcely

Awesome.  For every Thirty lines a phrase that doesn't shame me!

 

Or Less in hundred.  Time Off for VENUS AND ADONIS.  Time

Culled for my LUCRECE.  Then there's the Censor.  They'd have

 

Their gambol pure as the blessèd rain.  They'd geld old Shaksper!

Whoreson this Caitiff that, tapster cozen brach, and Jack's a Jack!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THIRTY-TWO

 

                         . . . Therefore, you men of Harflew,

Take pity of your town and of your people,

Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command,

Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace

O'erblows the filthy and contagious clouds

Of headly murther, spoil, and villainy.

If not—why, in a moment look to see

The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand

Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters;

Your fathers taken by the silver beards,

And their most reverend heads dash'd to the walls;

Your naked infants spitted upon pikes,

Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confus'd

Do break the clouds. . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

What say you?  Will you yield, and this avoid?

Or guilty in defense, be thus destroy'd?

 

                                                       ))))) HENRY V

 

 

This bellicose tripe old Misery's Snipe this Henry V this Spasm.

Reduc'd to lauding cruelty in the name of courtly fashion—The

 

Spasm has him—Shaksper, Bard.  For SUM—the Going's hard,

Some it's tight.  ONE wonders how I sleep at night, this chewet

 

Chops, reduced to slops, hail to the Queen!  They'll placket my

Grave with whore.  What's more I'm mickel patch. 'Tis WIND

 

I catch, this Stale, Slack, Brach.  Ah yes, there's time I Whiff a

Sniff at Sophocles, fancy self an Aeschylus diseased, one grand

 

Promotion.  And yet AM certain going through the motion; 'tis

Jade devotion—who miss'd out on a Gallant, who HAD a truer

 

Talent!  Were best you buried Shaksper deep.  His impulse is to

Sleep forever.  No more than clever.  Never never never never.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THIRTY-THREE

 

                                          . . . He reads much,

He is a great observer, and he looks

Quite through the deeds of men.  He loves no plays,

As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music;

Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort

As if he mock'd himself, and scorned his spirit

That could be mov'd to smile at anything.

Such men as he be never at heart's ease

Whiles they behold a greater than themselves,

And therefore are they very dangerous.

 

                                                    ))))) CAESAR

 

 

 

 

 

Whence came that hungry look upon the Cross?  Or Simon Peter

                   Just an albatross?  Where Judas, Virgin, holinessing?  To broach

 

In London's theatre such obsessing!  Our drama's hardly skew'd

For such.  Nor Cleric, Papist, Bishop, Judge.  God's Universe IS

 

Off the chart.  Onereally questions where to start.  We'll handle

Brutus, Cassius, Caesar.  To document the CHRIST requires His

 

Savior.  Just peer beneath the Ten [to MOSES].  My FONDEST

Greeting From the FIRE that Froze us!  They toasted Joan d'Arc

 

For slumming.  Her paragraph is short IF cunning.  LUTHER'S

Bible for the masses?  Wycliff rode in on colts & asses.  JESUS

 

The Christ endured their lectures.  What CAME of it, some Vild

Conjecture.  But etch the verse?  A certain conflagration, worse.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THIRTY-FOUR

 

Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass,

Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron,

Can be retentive to the strength of spirit;

But life, being weary of these worldly bars,

Never lacks power to dismiss itself.

If I know this, know all the world besides,

That part of tyranny that I do bear

I can shake off at pleasure.

 

                                                      ))))) CASSIUS

 

 

 

 

 

 

Murder of self?  'Tis not an easy task.  No matter What the Faith

One still must ask.  Whither proceed when Life is spent, Whither

 

Lent?  To Drown to choke to Sly upon one's sword?  'Tis Room

For pause, conjecture.  If Fate is willing? cease this lecture.  Call

 

Upon your Greater master, Fate.  One seldom Enjoys the Eating,

Ate.  Cessation is a problematic notion.  For which lies dormant

 

In the motion?  For where and which ignores the act?  And Who

The hidden instrument of Fact?  Marry the Flesh to God or Ruin;

 

The two are fellow, wedded To one.  Cassius?  Bravado, even in

A Roman.  For Southern Climates Had their Gods—OH Certain

 

Less tenacious grip.  But grasp indeed the very slip.  And gasp is

Counter to the gentle.  The sermon stands, less spirit MENTAL!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THIRTY-FIVE

 

Between the acting of a dreadful thing

And the first motion, all the interim is

Like a phantasm or a hideous dream.

The Genius and the mortal instruments

Are then in council; and the state of a man,

Like to a little kingdom, suffers then

The nature of an insurrection.

 

                                                     ))))) BRUTUS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brute force of course, the man alleges conscience.  Where found

One insult to assault the head of State?  Theorize for some a sum

 

Of rank repugnance.  Like Claudius, the offense IS such, as well

The Cadence.  These children of W. Shaksper and their anguish!

                                                                                                                        

As time moves on, the pain increases.  They'd have their slice of

Rancor with their wisdom.  They'd Have their Hope.  'D Grope

 

Their Hope?  And have their fever.  Antony wed and bed?  And

Then deceive her?  This Brutus plunge his Dagger unto Caesar?

 

Small matter hag or brag or seizure.  Small matters Cleopatras.

We're with the Romans.  'Tis simply Romance.  The sin of No

 

                     Man's culpable.  A feast of Living's on the table.  FOR give the

                    Fork in Caesar, Cassius.  Ignore the blade.  Forgive the Carcass.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THIRTY-SIX

 

Sweet are the uses of adversity,

Which like the toad, ugly and venomous,

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.

 

                                                              ))))) DUKE SENIOR

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advancing age can make one bitter.  For some the same for Joy

Is fitter.  Our Duke is as you like it.  The lute is mellow whence

 

He strikes it.  'Tis Nature, of Course, the blessèd Source, your

Devil's angel's den.  He'd HAVE his childhood BACK again.    

 

He'd join the feast.  For Death's deceased.  For Death is oddest

Notion.  It lacks a place in Grace, devotion.  One senses WILL

 

                      Has Lighter Moments.  Enough for NOW of Poet's Torments.

 Enough of Grief.  Amazement issues Forth in BUD and LEAF.

 

The word is Plenty.  To die at such a place were gently, sweet,

An Edge where PAIN admits Defeat.  Where VAST and Faith

 

 TRY on for size.  Or where God's fitter.  A REFUGE from the

  Bitter.  Were Paradise.  Open your wings, Ms. awesome thighs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THIRTY-SEVEN

 

And then he drew a dial from his poke,

And looking on it, with lack-lustre eye,

Says very wisely, "It is ten a' clock.

Thus we may see," quoth he, "how the world wags.

'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine.

And after one hour more, 'twill be eleven,

And so from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,

And then from hour to hour, we rot and rot;

And thereby hangs a tale.". . .

 

                                                     ))))) JAQUES

 

 

 

 

OR?  Stink and Stink?  'Tis curious, can't you think?  To Death

& Degradation from Broadest Affirmation?  To stench, to Rot,

 

From Melting heart to what he's Caught?  The wordsmith fangs

Tooth that's left in World's decay, in a corpse's weight!  Chews

 

The core of direst strait—meal that's eaten, Guest that's ATE.

To Breast, caress, GOD'S Daughter Earth, Play homage Birth,

 

Or tenderness?  Then Forage for the Worms beneath, Maggots,

Grub, and howthey MESS.  To praise the Queen, the King, the

 

Blessed?  And Wider notions, calm and Rest?  Skull beneath a

Wisdom's nadir?  Claw abroad for odd behavior?  OR cherish

 

Youth, Grace, God?  Play the sage OR awe the awed?  To Trace

 Life's dazzling beauty, ravish?  Collapse at last in horror, perish!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THIRTY-EIGHT

 

Invest me in my motley, give me leave

To speak my mind, and I will through and through

Cleanse the foul body of th' infected world,

If they will patiently receive my medicine.

 

                                                    ))))) JAQUES

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Did Motley cease when he retir'd, or ceased to please, or was he

Fired?  They faulted me for wiring one fine Patch that grac'd my

 

Lear.  Just what did Motley fear?  A lashing?  Certain for certain

Some bore thrashing.  For simple Kindness?  Who would ASK?

 

To call One's Primate Nuncle?  It had to rankle.  To term One's

Sovereign fool?  It weren't cruel precisely.  But things got ICY!

 

I'm up on history to a small extent.  Richard III in my hand was

Bent.  And Motley might have told him.  The King would likely

 

More thanscold him.  This project here would tire the Pope.  I'm

Guessing Patch was here for hope.  I'm guessing Patch was there

 

For wisdom.  And then were common Princes kiss'd them.  Even

                   Today I'm ONE to Miss them.  Lifts Leg to Piss?  Assist THEM!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THIRTY-NINE

 

O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!

Is it not monstrous that this player here,

Could force his soul so to his own conceit

That from her working all the visage wann'd,

Tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect,

A broken voice, an' his whole function suiting

With forms to his conceit?  And all for nothing,

                                                            For Hecuba?

                                                         What's Hecuba to him. . . ?

 

                                                                                                        ))))) HAMLET

 

 

 

 

Hamlet survive, they'll rake his brain.  Witless of grief or subtly

Sane?  Scholar, Prince, actor, Jew.  The Latter Matter's sharply

 

True?  Who but a Jew would hoard such grief?  Rend all thought

With Ought Belief?  That suicide were ample option?  Trust the

 

Lust but fear the motion!  Mumble at King yet slaughter 6-some?

Tender Ophelia, Rosencrantz?  Covet the steps but fail to Dance.

 

Reach some justice in the Fashion of his Dying?  Guild Laertes,

ROAST the Frying.  Spirit agéd Father in a Lock of Brain.  Mad

 

Enough for subtle Pain.  Baited swords, a poisoned Cup!  Knelt

                     A Welt, abruptly supped.  Mystified BOTH World and Rapture.

 

Etch'd the lecture:  "Horatio, brother, at your Leisure.  Mother,  

                   Utter, Adder, udder.  Mince the Prince and grave the pleasure!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FORTY

 

                             . . . who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn

No traveler returns, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have,

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale of thought,

And enterprises of great pitch and moment

With this regard their currents run awry,

And lose the name of action. . . .

 

                                                      ))))) HAMLET

 

 

 

 

 

My Hamlet were Solipsist of sort.  His tryst was self.  He prowl'd

The Court, dispensing calumny, contagion.  Clawed oily Deep or

 

Lofty region—'twas ALL the same for such a brooder.  His mien

Awry, from suit to tie, an open book in hand, he'd stand for hours

 

Coveting the moon.  Some Call'd it Sage.  His tarriance was self,

IN others Rage.  No candidate for head of State beyond a lineage.

 

Yet likely for a Father's Ghost, Pervasive superstition.  Few envy

Martyr's end of course—one must consider Source, an Inky cloak,

 

A disposition.  To slaughter King, no matter Faction, involves the

Name of action, furor, a Vast of sort by Cage in Court or altar.  He

 

Drew his death as one sucks breath.  Premeditation?  Claudius?  A

King?  Title itself was harsh abatis if not admir'd by quo or status. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FORTY-ONE

 

O, my offense is rank, it smells to heaven,

It hath the primal eldest curse upon't,

A brother's murther.  Pray can I not,

Though inclination be as sharp as will. . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . What if this cursed hand

Were thicker than itself with brother's blood,

Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens

                                                          To wash it white as snow? . . .

                                                                      . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

In the corrupted currents of this world

Offense's gilded hand may shove by justice,

And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself

Buys out the law, but 'tis not so above. . . .

 

                                                         ))))) CLAUDIUS

 

 

 

The Bard foresees an age when Fratricide is favored, or courtesy

Some Odd behavior.  When sacrilege will thumb its nose, when

 

Wisdom's on its toes, when property's the passion, Savior.  All

Due respect—you differ?  OR live to see proboscis stiffen such.

 

Such luck Is much.  We CLAIM the Midas touch.  We brandish

Crotch.  The sheep are weak.  The lions slaughter.  ALL man IS

 

Banish'd by his Daughter.  The Son's asleep.  His Price is Steep,

All Purpose Purchase.  God's ON the Market for a Crutch.  HIS 

 

Zeal is such that Incest has a Living.  All is forgiven.  The priest

Can paddle in a youngster's Drawers, slip STIFF to Sodom.  The

 

Bargain's autumn.  Cadavers soften.  We Vie for mastery of our

                    Grief.  God grieves His Sheaves.  Salvation's POLITÌC BELIEF.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FORTY-TWO

 

     Now, Hamlet, where's Polonius?

 

                                                         ))))) CLAUDIUS

 

     At supper.

 

                                                      ))))) HAMLET

 

     At supper?  Where?

 

                                                         ))))) CLAUDIUS

 

Not where he eats, but where 'a is eaten; a certain convocation of politic worms are e'an at him.  Your worm is your only emperor for diet: we fat all creature else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots; your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service, two dishes, but to one table—that's the end.

 

 

 

Again!  Again!  No matter sovereign grin, he's mortal.  An antic

Burrows through the portal.  A Prince 'S broken.  No matter that

 

He's mad, that patch is sad or Prince has lost his dad, a subject's

Spoken.  Claudius the unassailable is menu for a maggot's table.

 

Is kin to Beggar, PRIEST, a Feast.  Lean or plumper, He's over

The hump here, Headed like Jaques for rot.  The sniffler reveals

 

The snot, all coffin given.  Royal Estate is riven.  Where all BE

Corpse, we're certain Headed for Remorse.  Today?  I SAY rot

 

Tuesday. We can't expire till Wednesday.  But then?  The Total

Moment's Friday.  But die tomorrow?  Our Pact's with Mercy's

 

Simply Sorrow.  This slug that buries through a motley's cheeks

Will dine on Prince.  'TIS Eaten speaks.  The RATThat squeaks!   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FORTY-THREE

 

If music be the food of love, play on,

Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,

The appetite may sicken, and so die.

That strain again, it had a dying fall;

O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound

That breathes upon a bank of violets,

Stealing and giving odor.  Enough, no more,

'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.

O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou,

That notwithstanding thy capacity

Receiveth as the sea, not enters there,

Of what validity and pitch so'er,

But falls into abatement and low price

                                                             Even in a minute.  So full of shapes is fancy

That it alone is high fantastical.

 

                                                    ))))) ORSINO

 

 

Your Shaksper was a humanist.  He seldom mock'd the meat he

Kissed.  If tendered Fancy was a tougher Splice, he'd Blame the

 

Same on cut or slice.  Borrowed beauty OF the worldly matter.

Where beauty bent, he aped the sadder.  Fancy was first for the

 

Idle swain.  Genius was texture, plain was pain.  Hope was All

Pity in a mad man's LIVING.  Cost was forgiving.  Drama was

 

Living [for this poor-in-hearted].  Often forgiven at just what he

Started?  Even in James' arid scene he found the means to Care

 

Or dream.  Play hostess in a scheme or stance.  Often humbled,

Dare to Dance.  Pity or mercy for the crippled brain, for pitied 

 

Itself or Lender's reign.  Sadder tears were on the Roof.  Sens'd

The Grandeur, bred, Uncouth.  Nuance His Nature wit or Truth. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FORTY-FOUR

 

What is love?  'Tis not hereafter;

Present mirth hath present laughter;

What's to come is still unsure.

In delay there lies no plenty,

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty;

Youth's a stuff will not endure.

 

                                                                 ))))) CLOWN 's song

 

 

 

 

 

 

What captivates is range—from Softly sweet, to SAD, derang'd.

From chill of justice in the courts to mercy herself quite OUT of

 

Sorts.  From hand that's wedded to a matron's thigh, to rage and

Heartache ON the Sly.  From truth Endur'd to Falsity.  French to

 

Fact, from Me to Thee.  Shaksper Might Perish in This Stroll on

Boards, Usual chatter, Safe rewards.  No Great amount of Strife

 

Can Test a living place for Poet's Quest.  For Fortune's Cruel to

All the Rest.  For Fortune's cruel and Fame is Lean.  The DEAF

 

Survive or die midstream.  Perish a child, than ask its MOTHER.

Perish a Poet, WHO can Bother?  VERSE is the Curse a SCOPE

 

Invented.  Rich or cruel, poor, demented.  Gather wit's heart for

The Sore OPPRESS'D.  GATHER Him Gently, Let HIM REST.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FORTY-FIVE

                                                           

                                 . . . Honors thrive,

When rather from our acts we them derive

Than our foregoers.  The mere word's a slave

Debosh'd on every tomb, on every grave

A lying trophy, and as oft is dumb

Where dust and damn'd oblivion is the tomb

Of honor'd bones indeed.  What should be said?

If thou canst like this creature as a maid,

I can create the rest.  Virtue and she

Is her own dower; honor and wealth from me.

 

                                                     ))))) FRANCE

 

 

 

 

 

Here Shaksper, Edging Inexorably toward Dotage, has Royalty

In just as many words promoting royal Hell, a classless society.

 

That stings such anarchy is slyly lessened by their owner; King

Berate kingship Duke laud meritocracy madman democracy or

 

Motley a vulnerability of inherited nobility.  If all this scents or

Edges toward blasphemy, remember God's name's verboten in

 

Just 1606 upon the stage, for Stuarts have come of age, Papacy

Primal for the nonce.  Does playwright take a chance?  If Lads

 

Are still skirts on stage, the Stuart cosmos still a codpiece AGE,

                     Bathing yet dangerous to well-being, what Open'd up is Hardly

 

Fleeing, Courtly habits difficultly freeing.  Prospero, in Retreat

'D summon magic.  Yet witch 'D burn in turn for darker traffic.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FORTY-SIX

 

     It may be you have mistaken him, my lord.

 

                                                                                                                  ))))) BERTRAM

 

     And shall so ever, though I took him at prayers.  Fare you well, my lord, and believe this of me: there can be no kernel in this light nut; the soul of this man is his clothes.  Trust him not in matter of heavy consequence; I have kept of them tame, and know their natures.  Farewell, monsieur, I have spoken better of you than you have or will to deserve at my hand, but we must do good against evil.

 

                                                                                                                   ))))) LAFEW

 

 

 

 

 

A tailor made Him?  The future will not abrade Him.  IF Youth

Itself shall not endure the counterfeit is staunch, secure.  Those

 

Making for the feast—diseas'd, deceas'd?  And black the locks

With Polish—SHOE?  Brass the waist, Baste and CHEW.  OR

 

High fantastical, the Lot &.  Consum'd by Assets never gotten. 

Narcissus for the Age—from Witless youth to Doddering sage.

 

Our brains are buckled to our Corset.  Grow from Badder into

Worse-it.  Life were sadder than 'tis comic.  Ban your Skeptic

 

Pinch the vomit.  Olive envy, sweet and 80.  Where the end be

Question's weighty.  Man seems born to glow forever.  Cancel

 

Chancel, thought or fever.  Then come fork me, 90-9.  Stale the

Time.  Life is matter vast, divine. Seal the coffin, pop the Wine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FORTY-SEVEN

 

      How mightily sometimes we make us comforts of our losses!

             

                                                                                                                 ))))) first LORD

 

     And how mightily some other times we drown our gain in tears!  The great dignity that his valor hath here acquir'd for him shall at home be encount'red with a shame as ample.

 

                                                                                                                 ))))) second LORD

 

     The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together; our virtues would be proud, if our faults whipt them not, and our crimes would despair, if they were not cherish'd by our virtues.

 

 

 

 

Ambivalence—presented Fact or FONDLE?  Fact, perception, Bliss

Or Wept—a clotted bundle.  We will to Scream But mumble?  THIS

 

Whole Creation is a tumble!  Our total bag of blessings are an Ache?

We drop the glass and will it break?  Evehiss'd the adder Adam ate!

 

What's sought is seldom our desire.  The chill of Death is in the fire.

The total motion's in the rest?  The rest itself is Quest.  We FALL in

 

Love and beat our chest.  Mercy to the man that's master'd Paradise.

Complicity has Tried it on for size.  Mercy on MAN that's Master'd

 

Satan.  Whence entered worm that culp'd the Aten?  Where Lucifer

Minus God that whelp'd 'M?  Where Gorgon, Host that helped him?

 

Three wicked Sisters, even More, that captur'd our Macbeth?  Total

Crew.  Are out of EDEN?  The weird, fear'd, Arch, or angel, Eaten?   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FORTY-EIGHT

 

     He eats nothing but doves, love, and that breeds hot blood, and hot blood begets hot thoughts, and hot thoughts beget hot deeds, and hot deeds is love.

 

                                                                                                                 ))))) PARIS

 

     Is this the generation of love—hot blood, hot thoughts, and hot deeds?  Why, they are vipers.  Is love a generation of vipers?

                                                                        

                                                                                                                 ))))) PANDARUS

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is an age [some comes never] when passions relent the dull

The Clever.  When torment Ceases to Dissever, marriage, Mortal

 

Ache, endeavor.  The era often curs'd as evil, a potency Seems of

The Devil, Mephisto's Work, the Devil's stance.  Some Trust the

 

Freedom it endows, by chance.  'Tis not that wench or lad would

Sour in Mind's eye, or carnal lust—'tis not that Sigh or Thigh no

 

Longer thrust the usual tragic.  'Tis less than fever, even magic.  A

Syllable in life's sentence.  Nor need one wield protest, WAX wild

 

Or penance.  The muddle's gone, & vista clear.  One turns to view

The truly dear.  A passion for the Loveliness of what was Once an

 

Awesome mess, stress, hardship, painful longing.  The world itself

Is sweet.  A stranger alter?  'Tis odd 'tis God, we change the altar!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FORTY-NINE

 

Could great men thunder

As Jove himself does, petty officer

Would use his heaven for thunder,

Nothing but thunder!  Merciful heaven,

Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt

Splits the unwedgeable and gnarled oak

Than the soft myrtle, but him, proud man,

Dress'd in a little brief authority,

Most ignorant of what he's most assur'd

(His glassy essence), like an angry ape

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven

As makes the angels weep; who, with our spleens,

Would all themselves laugh mortal.

 

                                                         ))))) ISABELLA

 

 

 

Vanity of Vanities!  Whom to cull or who to please.  Whom to

Gull or Who to tease?  VAIN man Takes his Pomp with Ease.

 

Takes his Pomp with GLORY, motion.  Catalogues with LUST,

Devotion.  Catalogues with Jew and Gentile.  Mocks the Weak

.

And scorns the gentle.  Fiercely pompous strutting Fool, Pity's

Tyrant, misery's tool.  Man, oh MAN, oh Little Strutting Man!

 

                     Saddest wrinkle in the plan.  Cease, desist before he's gobbled.

Someone just might love the troubled.  Just might rip HIS tiny

 

Throat, rake him for a strutting goat.  Man, oh man, oh strutting

Man.  Even pigmy serves God's plan.  Pigmy errs unto the vast!

 

Sermon, Priest, Jehovah, PEST.  Catch as can.  Mock the Plan. 

How can wrinkle understand?  Even wrinkles etch God's hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FIFTY

 

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;

To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot:

This sensible warm motion to become

A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit

To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside

In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;

To be imprison'd in the viewless winds

And blown with restless violence round about

The pendant world; or to be worse than worst

Of those that lawless and incertain thought

Imagine howling—'tis too horrible!

The weariest and most loathed worldly life

That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment

Can lay on nature is a paradise

To what we fear of death.

 

                                                       ))))) CLAUDIO

 

 

I knew a gentleman who ended mute, perfectly sensible but stuck  

In His own ordure urine slobber stench, for 30 weeks before God

 

Took him, where? we know not where.  This comely MAN of wit

And substance, Wealth and Spirit, was Crucified in fashion More

 

Terrible than youth or beauty'd dare to comprehend.  The MAN

Was loyal, Just, Adhered to All the Merciful conventions of His

 

Race, had rais'd a family, trac'd his perfect fortune through this

Errant Globe with Equanimity, Amity and Precision.  Can such

 

BE life's revision?  Is IT not hell?  To rot in one's carnal stink?

Is such MAN or man-un-kind?  Can All life be so Precious that 

 

The benefactor roots like swine on Nature's udder?  Your Shake

Would Have it Other, term such Death and degradation UTTER!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FIFTY-ONE

 

O place and greatness! millions of false eyes

Are stuck upon thee.  Volumes of report

Run with these false, and most contrarious quest

Upon thy doings; thousand escapes of wit

Make thee the father of their idle dream,

And rack thee in their fancies.

 

                                                           ))))) VINCENTIO

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Who's in who's out?  As wight 'D make his way upon the stage,

I cannot be privy to the goings-on of State, of this, that Master's

 

Grand escape, Lord Humble's latest wenching, Earl Prod's favor

Among the stately elite or whom Count X were clenching.  What

 

Gown had promised high or dipp'd, what bodice ripp'd or Wine,

Or who might dine with even James tonight.  No, such is not the

 

Regimen I'd cite, who'd rather sleep his unattended night, break

Fast with porridge, sword in storage, pistols void of ammunition.

 

An honest living, a wife, a child and far from Vild.  Has Fortune

Smil'd on Earl of Southhampton?  OH Certain there is RUMOR

 

There, a whiff of scented tumult I can share, 'tis in the OFFING.

But rather Dignity of sorts and little Prone to Crown or Doffing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FIFTY-TWO

 

Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,

But seeming so, for my peculiar end;

For when my outward action doth demonstrate

The native act and figure of my heart

In complement extern, 'tis not long after

But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve

For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.

 

                                                ))))) IAGO

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From broad OTHELLO must assume the scholar who 'D bother

Honest is the major entry in Will's canon.  30, 40 occasion?  OR

 

Never taken notion?  One must assume Iago's such?  'Twas my

Intention.  Cover'd the track as best I Could, that Man of Girth

 

And wit, not wood, were gull'd by one no casual flit but Ancient

In arms unstated years, no pimp no frump no steer, but GRAND

 

Assistant.  The story HANGS on trust, sincerity.  The Bard must

Lean on clarity or obvious takes hold.  Certain the Moor WERE

 

Sage enough upon the ramparts.  BE gull'd by wight of dubious

Parts?  The action would be flaw'd.  'Tis odd that greatness. . . ?

 

How cudgel noble brain as Moor's to dreg in facile Ruin?  ALL

For Emelia's theft, a Subtle napkin, fragile HEFT for screwing?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FIFTY-THREE

 

O villainous!  I have look'd upon the world for four times seven years, and since I could not distinguish betwixt a benefit and an injury, I never found man that knew how to love himself.

 

                                                                                                                              ))))) IAGO

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On  the other hand, THIS Bite, this clever Adder, delineates HIS

Master's 2 great flaws succinctly.  What CHAMPIONS collapse

 

From warrior to jealous cuckold.  Othello has never truly known

Himself beyond persona, Nor plumb'd the depth of self alone, a

 

Troubled summa bona.  Such only itches at his rage, frustration.

With age one learns.  Othello simply burns.  And more so Hates

 

His Being.  Iago alone the spider, snake can spot the seeing, the

Gull, Patch, Fool Othello's fleeing.  His Desdemona adores Her

 

General.  Infatuation's often general.  Skeptics CROWD SOUL

With doubt.  A handkerchief's what doubt's about.  And Set his

 

Psyche on the SHELF—there's no critique.  In Time, With time,

Perhaps a week Othello aches.  Pity that heart this noble breaks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FIFTY-FOUR

 

                                           Had it pleas'd heaven

To try me with affliction, had they rain'd

All kind of sores and shames on my bare head,

Steep'd me in poverty to the very lips,

Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes,
I should have found in some place of my soul

                                                              A drop of patience; . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

But there, where I have garner'd up my heart,

Where either I must live or bear no life;

The fountain from the which my current runs

Or else dries up: to be discarded thence!

Or keep it as a cestern for foul toads

To knot and gender in!  Turn thy complexion there,

Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubin—

Ay, here look grim as hell!

 

                                                 ))))) OTHELLO

 

                                                       

This green-eyed monster that afflicts thee.  This carbuncle, brain

And innards.  This GOAT-fac'd LOUT with swinish snout, This

 

Crippl'd centaur.  Eye what thou art, Othello!  Riddled in fitches

Haunted with sullen, Mockery, pitches, scalding your Britches—

 

Canker and itches—wight who was rais'd to ruin under Southern

Star!  Look at this curse Our Shaksper heaps upon thee.  Attend!

 

To the Worst!  See'st thou burst?  Idler of horns, decidua Scorns

Thee.  Fell'd by thy very hand?  Such is God's plan.  Suckle this

 

Rotting moment.  Such is thy torment.  10,000 lashes?  GLANCE

Up this April Morning.  Look Up, thy gashes are Burning.  Skies

 

Leak a molten lead.  Desdem Is dead.  Chaos Is Thrust.  Shriek as

                   THOU Must, Jahweh is dust.  Sup upon Terror.  All Life is Error.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FIFTY-FIVE

 

It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul;

Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars,

It is the cause.  Yet I'll not shed her blood,

Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,

And smooth as monumental alabaster.

Yet she must die, else she betray more men.

Put out the light, and then put out the light:

If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,

I can again thy former light restore,

Should I repent me; but once put out thy light,

Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,

I know not where is that Promethean heat

                                                            That can thy light resume. . . .

 

                                                                                                                   ))))) OTHELLO

 

 

 

 

Prometheus thiev'd fire, a wretched trick.  The punishment was

Harsh, the matter thick.  Othello's snuff'd his lover's life.  Such

 

Fashion to divorce a wretched wife!  Such fashion to decide the

        Matter!  Is murther simply blood or Sadder?  The Moor enjoy'd

 

       A blessèd State, supremely general to the greatly great.  Paragon

        Of virtue, trust.  How a man of years descends to dust!  Wedded

 

       To lust and indecision, Othello pander'd to a serpent's vision.  A

Prey to Slant, Cant, subterfuge, a LARGE misspoken Judgement,

 

Huge.  Buried his rage and sorrow with a purloin'd sword.  Such

Little death!  Was audience BOR'D?  The groundling Thrives on

 

Baited bears.  As well the moneyed in their silver chairs.  As well

The rarest in their golden Box.  A Poet sings but Money TALKS!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FIFTY-SIX

 

                               O ill-starr'd wench,

Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt,

This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven,

And fiends will snatch at it.  Cold, cold, my girl?

Even like thy chastity.  O cursed, cursed slave!

                                                        Whip me, ye devils,

From the possession of this heavenly sight!

Blow me about in winds! roast me in sulpur!

Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire!

O Desdemon! Dead, Desdemon! Dead!

                                                          O, O!

 

                                                                                                                   ))))) OTHELLO

 

 

 

 

 

Such passions as we greet in Such a Moor!  The Pain 'D Blanch

A Leper sore.  Would DRIVE all Demon from a Soul Possess'd.

 

The hue and cry of bedlam's trivial against the rest.  Such shriek

In truest Time would rouge a shuddering Year.  'Tis BARD they

 

Fear, 'tis loss.  Wrenched by the Gall of my own lungs.  An only

Son's.  Hamnet! spoken with sever'd tongue as if Demon seiz'd

 

The core of Shaksper's being.  Carnal specter that he's Fleeing, a

Flesh made spirit.  Come God, Light!  I'd trade my vision for the

 

Sight.  One sweet Night that breaks for supple Form, Lad's GRIP

Upon an shoulder.  Lad's kiss, lad's bliss or even colder.  Molten

 

Brass my tears at his return.  Such the Fire that has me burn.  'D

Itch Devil into belly, a thousand Hamlets for a lad's . . . hell He!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FIFTY-SEVEN

 

                                                                 Out, vild jelly!

                                    Where is thy luster now?

 

                                                                                                                 ))))) CORNWALL

 

     All dark and comfortless!  Where is my son Edmund?

Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature,

                                   To quit this horrid act.

 

                                                                                                                 ))))) GLOUCESTER

 

 

 

 

 

The old man blinded in part by the very son he trusted, Edmund

The bastard.  We catch him pleading to the cruel Gods surcease

 

Of mighty sorrow.  Ah Gloucester, has just begun his journey to

Despair.  The air is rank with evil.  Two daughters inscribe their

 

Assignation with the Devil.  Edmund is Earl while Father inches

Toward Dover.  Edgar will hover.  Here is our pain in battalions.

 

This Time I gathered all my Wit to make a Pact with Teeth, with

Bloody stallions.  They paw the night.  They tremble fierce flesh

 

Andhumble sight.  The probable has waned.  Waxes fierceness!

An aged sovereign stumbles heath and storm to tender WORM,

 

Worm's smile, an awful scar.  Would seem yet are in such Vast

 Equation.  Lear minus LEAR is Gloucester.  'Tis darkest Ostler.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FIFTY-EIGHT

 

As flies to wanton boys are we to th'gods,

                                       They kill us for their sport.

 

                                                                                                              ))))) GLOUCESTER

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In another year the Court 'D banish'd God, a Term at least, from

Drama.  Banish'd His kingdom, Panorama?  'Tis terror this dark

 

Vision of world Spirit.  Remove an S from Gloucestor's horrific

Speech were blasphemy, I fear'dit.  Would Christian Deity play

 

Lad with flies?  Set them afire, tear wings, dip creature in God's

Cries?  Where is the VAST Creator who would succor an Earl's

 

Despair?  Has vanished like weird sister in the air?  Blister'd his

Own skin and mock'd his prayer?  Where generates such horror

 

In a poet's heart?  Where Ends and where doth Start?  'TIS JOB 

Of sorts this awful vision.  Married to Martyrs, Sons, and Fierce

 

Derision.  Youth exits.  A stage is clear'd.  'Tis not the world we

Fear'd.  'Tis April morning.  A bard's soon done with mourning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FIFTY-NINE

 

Behold yond simp'ring dame,

Whose face between her forks presages snow;

That minces virtue, and does shake the head

To hear of pleasure's name—

The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to't

With a more riotous appetite.

Down from the waist they are Centaurs,

Though women all above;

But to the girdle do the gods inherit,

Beneath is all the fiends': there's hell, there's darkness,

There is the sulphurous pit, burning, scalding,

Stench, consumption.  Fie, fie, fie! pah, pah!

 

                                                ))))) LEAR

 

 

HORROR of the Female's VAST, eternal, her Menstrual blush,

Infernal.  That pinches sex, castrating HEX, a stink below their

 

Necks, a muddy slime.  These brutes would Rest their Quest IF

Given time.  The female is a stale of mind.  Bear children, cook

 

OR gather?  I'd have them virgin rather, aloft and unassailable,

Than set me DOWN to matron's table.  Lear's daughters, some

 

Two of them were easily such, averse to Sympathy OR Touch!

You mock this grand assumption?  A leak of bile, consumption!

 

Small wonder a BARD deserted Stratford.  Where Avon leak'd

                     'D spat for it.  Judith herself was stink possess'd—I'll get THIS

 

Ratter off my chest!  Would summer in France remove to Spain

Would hassle brain, calumnious.  A STUFF of cuss and Uterus!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SIXTY

 

. . . Come, let's away to prison:

We two alone will sing like birds i' th' cage;

When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down

And ask of thee forgiveness.  So we'll live,

And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh

At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues

Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too—

Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out—

And take upon's the mystery of things

As if we were God's spies; and we'll wear out,

In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones,

                                                              That ebb and flow by th'moon. . . .

 

                                                ))))) LEAR

 

 

 

On the Other hand, I'll let it stand—that She is Lovely beyond

Measure, or humankind's unsightly treasure, soft as the spring,

 

This siren so Oft suffering, her subtle brow to limped Eyes.  Or

In No sense so much, Or garment's drape or even duty, gentler

 

Beauty a wake or teasing.  Love has had woman in her seizing!

Or not for logic even reason, but rather to capture what it knew

 

From autumn, Other season?  Some Curious Chapter, Mystery!

Yet unveiled in human history?  From Cleopatra, Venus, Circe!

 

From dazzling touch to abject misery.  I speak of Trace.  Have

Surely seen the virgin inclination, face.  And will'd to erase its

 

Surging to rarity from commonplace.  Cordelia lives.  All Saint

Forgives.  Cordelia smiles.  At counter gender's Grace or wiles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SIXTY-ONE

 

And my poor fool is hang'd!  No, no, no life!

Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,

And thou no breath at all?  Thou'lt come no more,

Never, never, never, never, never.

 

                                                ))))) LEAR

 

 

 

 

 

 

Never nevers?  The fact dissevers.  LEAR recovers Faith, Again

Despair.  Mortality's stink is on the air.  The gentlest Wight that

 

Breath'd is dead.  Too much to FATHOM, even dread.  Cordelia

Ceases to exist: eyes, Brain, lips.  A solemn FATE attends OUR

 

Living.  When maggot smiles, he's not forgiving.  The Touch of

Maiden has its rending for sapling bent will bend no ending.  Ah

 

Lear, ah Lear, WE Fear your FEAR!  Corpse Sprouts like Lilacs

In this darkest year.  Edgar will covet.  Doubt will tease.  Foolish

 

Lout will shout, disease.  Margin of victory often pyrrhic, sudden

Is Death and Brave Men fear it.  Fear Death, Decay, a Monstrous 

 

Birth.  Maggots attending sullen Earth.  Cordelia, Patch, a victim

Hang'd.  Strange so strange!  Monstrous motion, fierce derang'd.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SIXTY-TWO

 

             . . . I am Thane of Cawdor.

If good, why do I yield to that suggestion

Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair

And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,

Against the use of nature?  Present fears

Are less than horrible imaginings:

My thought, whose murther yet is but fantastical,

Shakes so my single state of man that function

Is smother'd in surmise, and nothing is

                                                             But what is not. . . .

 

                                                                                                                 ))))) MACBETH

 

 

 

 

This Thane, near King, is soon to yield soul and sleep to fateful

Journey.  For King, still Thane at heart, is part and parcel, TO a

 

Witch's bourn—he raps ambition on a deadly door, slight, ajar,

The gateway to murder'd Duncan.  Macbeth is rude but coax'd

 

By bride.  Maugre Leman, Lady, Pride.  Soon Brach Contriv'd.

Arriv'd the fateful hour.  Blood on their Hands like Kith-man's

 

Dower 'L never free vex'd Claudius either.  Or tainted sanguine,

Sickly odor, will Couple a wedded Nightly murder.  Guilt of an

 

Order?  Blood begets such in Banquo, other.  Flesh begets flesh,

The Quest, its brother.  Killer, kinsman, all must weep.  Cawdor

 

Has slept a final sleep.  Scotland restore a sainted Seed.  Mercy

 Or wisdom, wrath is Greed.  Evil Endures when Bleeder bleeds.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SIXTY-THREE

 

           . . . Besides, this Duncan

Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been

So clear in his great office, that his virtues

Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongu'd, against

The deep damnation of his taking-off;

And pity, like a naked new-born babe,

Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubin, hors'd

Upon the silent couriers of the air,

Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,

That tears shall drown the wind. . . .

 

                                                        ))))) MACBETH

 

 

 

 

 

Like bait for bears our groundlings cherish Slaughter, Tears.  SO

Long as grief is JUST.  Whoever endures the carnage must QUIT

 

Acquitted.  An ethos of Idle rules the Theatre.  Chaos for Othello

Comes again.  Iago is toasted for his pains.  Cornwall absorbs his

 

Servile sword.  Edmund is simply bored.  Or rendered to halves?

Sullen the cattle, naïve as calves.  We tailor vendors to the ready

 

Show.  Where show must go.  The drama must have legs!  Serve

Timon, Titus, Richard, dregs.  Serve Falstaff's wit.  Serve dotage.

 

A Proper play must Ravage ALL offense.  Morality is Clever but 

The Moral dense.  The price is often long and hard.  We struggle

 

With the Action and regard the purse.  We kill the curs'd.  Kneel

OR retard.  Pity the State, its ward.  Pity this plot-forsaken Bard.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SIXTY-FOUR

 

                  . . . Come, seeling night,

Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day,

And with thy bloody and invisible hand

Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond

Which keeps me pale!  Light thickens, and the crow

Makes wing to th' rooky wood;

Good things of day begin to droop and drouse,

Whiles night's black agents to their preys do rouse.

Thou marvel'st at my words, but hold thee still;

Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.

So prithee go with me.

 

                                                         ))))) MACBETH

 

 

 

The power of the language Oft stuns Myself, old Fitchew Shake;

And seeing thus myself a stranger taken, some weird old Wight,

 

That wonders how he'll sleep forsaken, some eighty Souls vying

For the MATTER—lift a Session from their Maker, the priester

 

Pomper, prince, the Gift, the Taker.  I'm crowded, this odd Soul

With London's hue and cry and can't say why this scribbling IS

 

Such torment.  Why the truth of Shake were up for comment, Or

Prefecture.  And wish'd above all mercy I had Turn'd weird Gift

 

To better Lecture.  This Macbeth here, so voluble, so odd, those

Phrases seemingly from God or Madman, Satan.  And then HIS

 

Woman—to conjure up that sickness for display were somehow

Omen.  Scarf up the tender eye?  To explanation?  Wither, why?

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SIXTY-FIVE

 

                    . . . Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more.  It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

                                                             Signifying nothing. . . .

 

                                                         ))))) MACBETH

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Had God Jehovah scribbled such a speech, his Adam, even Eve

Would be less beholding.  The quills I grip oft seem scolding, &

 

Well, Chancy, for even our odd unseemly crupper.  Who'd have

This Shaksper in for supper, were sermon tract?  They Oft decry

 

A script I hand them.  Larger than why or who commands them?

You'd think some awful link from Muse to message.  Were poet

 

Sage, enrag'd, berserk and not this law abiding clerk, or Morley

MAS-ter!  Quite honest can't recall the prompting or the jester!

 

Is Shaksper going bleak?  'D summon Satan speak?  Would Call

Saltpetre tinder?  Such speaks to my frustration—a normal Chap

 

Who'd have his pint of bitter.  No fake, no Snake, or usual rake

That'd take up 2nd pint but not a tippler.  With wench a Sippler! 

                                                                                                                         

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SIXTY-SIX

 

                                                   O Charmian!

Where think'st thou he is now?  Stands he, or sits he?

Or does he walk?  Or is he on his horse?

O happy horse to bear the weight of Antony!

Do bravely, horse, for wot'st thou whom thou mov'st?

The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm

And burgonet of men.  He's speaking now,

Or murmuring, "Where's my serpent of old Nile?"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

                       . . . Broad-fronted Caesar,

When thou was here above the ground, I was

A morsel for a monarch; and great Pompey

Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow;

There would he anchor his aspect, and die

                                                           With looking on his life. . . .

 

                                                             ))))) CLEOPATRA

 

 

 

 

This lady's wit's capacious as her kitty.  Empress Egypt, MORE

Than pretty.  Collects the movers of the Earth, if not for children

 

Then a subtle birth.  Cleopatra, where she's at were hard to truly

Guess.  Sexual pleasure, happiness.  Wit as wide as edge, THAT

 

Keen.  Climbs a silver ladder to her perfect dream.  Surveys from

Pith all tenderness.  Where she's at were, hard to guess.  A Press

 

Of fate attends her being, Queen of the Nile and All that's Living.

Serpent of grandeur, adder's bite.  Realm of the dark and endless

 

Night.  Glitter by day, flair by morning.  Given to shatter without

Warning.  A Holy host lies in her mirror, trapp'd by the countless

 

Souls that fear her.  Cleopatra, where she's at were hard to guess.

Torrent of Isis, KHEM, I'd Stress.  Adder's Bite and Tenderness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SIXTY-SEVEN

 

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale

Her infinite variety.  Other women cloy

The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry

Where most she satisfies; for vildest things

Become themselves in her, that the holy priests

                                                               Bless her when she's riggish. . . .

 

                                                                                                               ))))) ENOBARBUS

 

 

 

 

 

 

Riggish, wanton in a Layman's language.  Piggish is pomp, our

Lady's savage.  Splendor contrives to shadow such.  Touch is a

 

Motion, such is much.  Cleopatra's a General's dream—wench

To comfort, tease to Queen.  Beauty as hers would BE obscene

 

STALE so livid in a churl's sad scheme.  Cleopatra vivid walks

The Nile, rides in splendor, struts in Style.  Darker Female than

 

Her usual station, bright as sunset, evening's Ration.  Where IS

This lass of FERAL culture?  Press the raptor train the Vulture?

 

Cherish her living, taste her faults?  Princes sleep forever in the

Cloister'd vaults.  Pharaohsdream eternal sweep.  There by our

 

Sphinx the Mother speaks.  Utter all FLESH, 'tis freshly Sweet.   

Coffin-offing winding sheet.  Cosmos ever HAD the tale repeat.

                      

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SIXTY-EIGHT

 

     You must not think I am so simple but I know the devil himself will not eat a woman.  I know that a woman is a dish for the gods, if the devil dress her not.  But truly, these same whoreson devils do the gods great harm in their women; for in every ten they make, the devils mar five.

 

                                                                                                                     ))))) CLOWN

 

     Well, get thee gone, farewell.

 

                                                                                                                      ))))) CLEOPATRA

 

     Yes, forsooth, I wish you joy o' th' worm.

 

                                                                   

 

 

 

Cleopatra, what's she after?  Cruel the dying.  Even trying.  Kiss

Of venom.  Fear the plenum.  Vivid lady in a wicked city.  Awe

 

And pity.  Child so pretty.  Odd she'd perish!  Swoon or cherish!

Ask'd for mercy from a clown.  Venus, Circe put her down.  'Tis

 

The motion.  Soft devotion.  'Tis the silk.  Stroke and milk.  'Tis

The horror.  Human error.  Vivid Empress in a wicked city.  Just

 

To BE!  To be that pretty.  Father Son and Holy Spirit.  Wench is

Shortly dead I fear it.  Father Son and Holy Ghost.  Bite the worm

 

Or burn the toast.  Father, Ghost.  Burn the Host.  Father, Spirit.  I

Was near it.  Near my captor.  Fear'd the Rapture!  Near devotion.

 

Soft the motion!  Near the plenum.  Chas'd the venom!  Cruel the

Living.  Saint's Forgiving!  Cruel the Peace.   A Wench deceas'd!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SIXTY-NINE

 

                             . . . Poor venomous fool,

Be angry, and dispatch.  O, could'st thou speak,

That I might hear thee call great Caesar ass

                                                           Unpolicied! . . .

 

                                                             ))))) CLEOPATRA

 

                                                              O eastern star! . . .

 

                                                           ))))) CHARMIAN

 

                                                  . . . Peace, peace!

Dost thou not see my baby at my breast,

                                                            That sucks the nurse asleep? . . .

 

 

Antony gone, she flees this hideous motion toward his arms.  He

Waits at the very center.  There in armor, Welt in an angry belly!

 

Creation burns!  An adder suckles at the lady's breasts.  World's

Shudder.  The universe is wind.  Treasure winds.  Some paradox

 

Is here.  Of sudden, childless, nurses Death.  The Shriek is in the

Goblet where she last suck'd Water.  Torment for the Terror.  It

 

Captures egress by the moment.  There Exists no Larger instant.

Whirl galaxy.  Whirl sun and star, for Empress SUPS the moon!

 

Such Rare and raging Beauty.  Adder nurses at Cleopatra!  This

Hisses sharply into slumber.  What Chill to breast no Daughter!

 

What ache, what carnage!  Here is the living's nadir.  Here is all

Torture!  Antony waits upon his Sister!  An adder's Kissed Her!    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SEVENTY

 

You taught me language, and my profit on't

                                                          Is, I know how to curse. . . .

 

                                                       ))))) CALIBAN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To simply sense the itch of Bard's despair?  A scent of sullen air.

Perdition catch my Spirit!  This victory's pyrrhic.  Water attends

 

My banquet in the mortal.  To sup, to drown, I enter at the portal.

Witch predicts my name will last forever.  Such the subtle charm 

 

Of an angry never.  Chill 'D dissever.  Even the measured.  What

Boots this fumbling for an Idle message?  How Vild the presage! 

 

Every some thousand years a Poet's born.  And Death, where 'D

Go, 'Tis seldom bourn.  Born vast oblivion, a mote in an August

 

Sun.  Bear vacuous waste, bear sum.  Bear Wither.  'Tis Certain

Wits are seldom Hither.  And Beauty IS rarely Textur'd by their

 

Limitations.  God on this fragile globe greets anguish, tribulation.

Bury me deep in dazzling Spring!  Protect the font of Everything.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SEVENTY-ONE

 

     A most ridiculous monster, to make a wonder of a poor drunkard!

 

                                                                                                                        ))))) TRINCULO

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Can they sense?  Can they sense?  'Tis what I've made of JOHN

Falstaff.  I mock myself?  Wit wanes and pain HAS eaten health.

 

Jehovah's children have their master.  THIS master's small, And

God is vaster.  'D close with Prospero were the ending neat.  But

 

Shaksper must scribble, pander cheat.  Carry over past the call of

Calling.  Fret the simple, gull the galling.  Ready wit is a bootless

 

Venture.  Bread in belly is the best adventure.  You lost the teeth?

They say there's denture.  Careless of linen is the threat of dying.

 

Pots or pans?  'Tis more the frying.  Shaksper 'D COOK up God

And Devil.  Garnish the pepper with a thrust at level.  Serve up a

 

Moor, many princes.  Top with a slice of what convinces.  Hap'd

To impart a Beast the sense is.  Hope my heaven's free of fences.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SEVENTY-TWO

 

Our revels now are ended.  These our actors

(As I foretold you) were all spirits, and

Are melted into air, into thin air,

And like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,

And like this insubstantial pageant faded

                                                              Leave not a rack behind.  We are such stuff

As dreams are made on; and our little life

                                                            Is rounded with a sleep. . . .

 

                                                                                                               ))))) PROSPERO

 

 

 

 

 

How SAD!  How awfully SAD!  Did I write that?  'TIS poignant

Yet, a sharp regret.  Such soul would kick a CAT.  Small wonder,

 

That.  Some final story.  We strain to live and die to glory.  Such

Is the Nature of the human Beast.  Early to Dinner, late to Feast.

 

Even the Healthy are Diseas'd.  Even the Healthy Stink, decease.

Shaksper would utter final wisdom.  Marry all structure to a jake

 

He piss'd in.  Most would term this indecision.  Bland is the diet,

Pale the vision.  Ye, o Ye, a play must end.  Wit to wanton, stale

 

Or friend.  Seldom that genius has a friend.  Most settle for Anne

A wife, a trend.  God knows where He spits.  And where it lands.

 

                    Let Stranger CATER to His strange Demands.  Someone Rarely

Future?  Someone SICK?  The Play's the thing, but wit is Thick!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SEVENTY-THREE

 

                              . . . I knew a man

Of eighty winters—this I told them—who

A lass of fourteen brided.  'Twas thy power

To put life into dust; the aged cramp

Had screw'd his square foot round,

The gout had knit his fingers into knots,

Torturing convulsions from his globy eyes

Had almost drawn their spheres, that what was life

In him seemed torture.  This anatomy

Had by his young fair fere a boy, and I

Believ'd it was his, for she swore it was,

And who would not believe her? . . .

 

                                                                                                                     ))))) PALAMON

 

 

 

So desperate to endure!  Inseminate a childish whore?  Rut child

Indeed and lust for more?  This doddering stiff must last, restore.

 

All Semen Such, a terror, Treasure.  All seed to sprout, a lad, 'tis

Pleasure.  KNEW man indeed 'D coupl'd infant.  Such civil soul

 

Should burn, repent.  Knew Masters of the trade I've squandered

Lay pipe to lad that quickly founder'd.  Lay seed to stamen, bud,

 

To blossom.  Eyed ignorance of winter, awesome.  Wave Breaks

Surely on the shore,yet waves repeat forever, more.  What fancy

 

Cling to youth or clever?  Like Lear to Patch to never never.  For

Life is such, a wave on water.  Forgive the impulse of this MAN

 

Who bought there.  Who purchas'd youth or rhyme divine, with

 Decadence, a wrinkle, mime.  Odd god, forgive MY final Crime. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SEVENTY-FOUR

 

. . . Thy name, my most kind virgin?

Recount, I do beseech thee.  Come sit by me.

 

                                                       ))))) PERICLES

 

 

My name is Marina. . . .

 

 

. . . O, I am mock'd,

And thou by some incensed god sent hither

To make the world to laugh at me. . . .

 

                                                       ))))) PERICLES

 

 

 

 

To grieve a child!  To grieve a child, Marina!  How tortured as

Our Pericles might BE, to break a void quite sudden fill'd!  'D

 

Drive man to despair.  Fruit of insidious labor's in the air.  And

Yearning rare.  Impossible the tear.  Such emptiness is rare.  'D

 

Only speculate at this condition.  A zero's void is vast omission!

Cessation'd Leak Naked mockery, an Insolence.  That Daughter

 

Ripp'd from one's very Gut are re-embodied by a solemn waif,

Such blissful hurtful joyous ugly sweep.  The sweep the edge is

 

Deep, the torment blinding.  Bard's Patch is reconstructed.  The

Ache so fierce its owner desurrected.  Where in God's kingdom?

 

Odd summons to fulfill?  Our God is Ill.  Fell Pericles is Savage.

This gain is darker than the loss, a hideous prank, a noble ravage.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SEVENTY-FIVE

 

Oh Helicanus, strike me, honored sir,

Give me a gash, put me to present pain,

Lest this great sea of joys rushing upon me

O'erbear the shores of my mortality,

And drown me with their sweetness. . . .

 

                                                       ))))) PERICLES

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elektra regain her brother?  The savage joy can claim no mother.

ALL relative has ceas'd.  This joy is utter, near DISEASE.  Man

 

Clings to NO such radiance.  Is such the fated promise of a LIFE

Still-born?  Tissue of heart itself is torn.  Dark bliss cannot recall

 

Such cadence.  Shriek'd affirmation erupts from a father's chest!

Pericles would summon Pity in a QUEST, in partial PAIN.  'TIS

 

Agony's sweet essence.  Marina has given self to know her KIN.

The loss has been.  Ripped from his life a child!  And then return

 

A Virgin, Vild!  Searing beauty nearly claims him.  Duty is vivid

In a recognition.  This waif that was my daughter.  I've lived the

 

Livid slaughter.  And resurrected?  Come GASH my soul.  FLAY

Body whole, sear ghost, I fear it.  Thoughts race; I cannot clear it.   

 

 

                                                  

 

                                                 2009