Poem: Moisey Slayeth the Great Beast Academy

Moisey slayeth the great beast Academy
In fair May of 07 AD
Flexed his suntanned and sinewed anatomy
For Freedom and Egalité!

Born in the exurbs of Brotherland,
and raised in sweet pastures the same,
Moisey traveled across to the Westerworld
Where Fitzgerald once promised a name.

‘Twas here on the Golden Gate’s East Side
That their first encounter did come—
The beastly Academy’s rawhide
Yet unscathed by the sharp or the dumb.

It had not any inkling or notion
Of what the young Moisey could do
Complacency its only compulsion—
From centuries of pupils subdued.

They feared its forked tongue spewing fire
Of multi-syllabic cant
And they cowered wide-eyed in the ire
Of its Arm Chairman liberal rant.

Its carbuncular haunches they hated
Its scrofulous scrotum they loathed
But worse was the puss it generated
And spewed at them out through its nose.

For years they had prayed for a hero
Ever faithless one day one would come,
For their esteem had all fallen to zero
With no Coke for their tankards of rum.

Their eyes were glazed over with torpor;
Their lips dribbled drool to their chins;
They had lost their idealistic ardor;
They had lost their salacious grins.

Moisey entered the gates of the Sather
Innocuous-looking at best
No helmet atop his curls, rather
A Mamiya strung round his young chest.

But under his Led Zeppelin t-shirt
And his three year old worn Diesel jeans
Was an aesthetic, artistic convert
To the theory of meaning that means.

Yes, under his frayed Urban Outfit
He hid more than the others of kind
The Classicist’s ideal in form, and
More Greco- than Roman in mind.

“What’s this!?” he asked one female pupil
Who cowered, her face in her hands.
“What power could rob of their passion
The young women and men of these lands?”

“Tis the horrid beast, the monster Academy!
He rapeth and pillage the fair!
He swoops down into the glade Memorial
And plucks up students by the braids in their hair!”

“Truly this cannot be; you are lying!”
“You mean myth-making, and No! I am not!”
“But what could this, um, Monster, be trying—”
“He has a most sinister plot!

“He means to ensnare all the pupils—
The greatest young minds of the land—
To distract them all from their own passions,
And control all their minds with his hand!”

“This cannot come to pass,” and with
These grave words brave Moisey pursed
His budding lips in preparation for
A battle royal cursed.

He trained day in and out for years—
Took classes all the while—
Studied Academy’s power o’er his peers
‘Til he was ready for his trial.

The day the battle was to be
The sun shone unawares
For all its power, Academy
Not for earthly pleasure cares.

The beast was waiting in its lair—
A classroom down the hall;
And brave young Moisey, vicious fair
Prepared to see it all:

He turned the knob and pushed the door;
He calmly stepped inside.
The beast had not one head, but more!
Three! Brave Moisey sighed.

“Good afternoon; nice weather, yeah?”
He asked the foul enemy.
“I care not for the sun or rain,”
Said cold Academy.

“For facts, a bit; for figures, more,
So long as they can be bent.
My favorite, though, are kids like you
Who can barely pay their rent,

“And yet think that they know something
‘Bout how the world does work.
I’ll test your knowledge, quickly done,
You insolent little jerk.”

Each head had said its bit; by now,
You wonder how they looked?
The first had hair Medusa-like,
The second’s nose was crooked.

The third, I fear too dreadful—
Too odious to tell—
All that I will say here is
That Man! Its breath did smell.

But Moisey, brave, was strong and loud
With moxie more than most.
He’d learnt it from his family, proud,
Though not the kind to boast.

And with a whack! at one, and then
A smack! at the second head,
Brave Moisey focused all his strength
At striking the third one dead.

One thousand one verbal skirmishes, then
Six hundred and sixty-six blows,
Then three hundred and sixty-six slices
Cut off Academy’s leap year toes.

The beast, you could tell, he was waning,
His blood was all over the floor;
Its acid burnt holes in the lino
But Moisey could still give it more.

He wielded his trusty Mamiya,
And explained to the near-bested beast
“My passion is pictures; I’ll show you
That theories are what matter least.”

And with that he snapped the beast’s picture
And having forgotten the flash
Wasn’t off, the light then was blinding
And Academy fell with a Crash!

Yes, the power of one young true artist
His intention so innocent pure—
To dazzle with truth and enlighten—
Was the very most powerful cure,

For the sickly old slag, that Academy,
So beastly and bony to boot,
Had left in its place a young woman,
Bonny and bounteously cute.

“You’ve saved me! You’ve saved Passion!" she cried,
And with that, all the pupils poured in;
“You’ve slain it—the beast—right there it has died!
And Passion’s now all ours again!”

Poem: On My Birthday, Lynn's Birthday

My poems always rhyme, you know.
How I contrive to make them so
delightful that they thrill you, yo,
from crown of head to tip of toe.

And though they rhyme so prettily
with rhythm even as the sea
makes waves whose bubbling jubilee
convey my hopes and dreams for thee

they spoil quick and disappear
and make me long for yesteryear
when we were bosom buddies, dear,
and had great hopes and had no fear.

And so on—of all days—today—
Sham Holiday—you lead astray
a silly friend who wants to say
she loves you, in a tender way.

Poem: After Talking to Perdition

"This is such a girly place. There needs to be some serious man around. You can imagine what everyone else is like."

gay 'n girly—flushed 'n curly
riding 'round the whirly-twirly

brawn 'n burly—davidson-hurley
plowing through all hard and surly

they so pearly—you so churly
poppin' cherries oft' 'n early

lick 'em, surely, for their purely
burning urge to sigh demurely

Poem: On Auden's Fall of Rome

Caesar's double-bed is warm
As an unimportant clerk
Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK
On a pink official form.

A clerk I am of no import
I spend the hours sitting here
In brown and taupe official drear
And writing rhyming lines for sport.

My desk a haven square and true
With walls around that hide my face
So nobody can see a trace
Of the naughty things I do.

Sometimes I have an itch or two
In places inappropriate
With no one to prevent respite
I scratch them and I think of you.

Caesar, love, you lie abed -
Tell me you don't think of me!
Staring up into pink canopy
Which mimics well my well-formed head

Or bottom, in its curvature.
Its color, like the forms I stamp,
Like my body, flushed and damp
With perspiration's overture.

To craft a rhyme takes only time,
And steady rhythm aids climax,
And then my muscle - contracts -
At thoughts of stacks of forms sublime.