October 31, 2014
Young Johnny murdered all his friends.
He brought them all to grisly ends.
‘Twere some he stabbed and some he shot,
And some he clubbed and left to rot.
When Johnny saw what he had done
He knew he’d have to hide his fun.
He would be in jail forever
If Mom saw the limbs he’d severed.
So Johnny put them in a pile—
Stacked every corpse of every child—
And doused them all in gasoline
To cover up his murder scene.
Too bad for Johnny and his plan—
He stood too near the petrol can.
So when he bent to strike the match
Up Johnny went like dryest thatch.
So when you build a fun’ral pyre
To cover crimes by cleansing fire
There’s one important thing to do:
Make sure you don’t get fuel on you.
October 30, 2014
sea’s sound in the breeze
captured in a pretty shell
nature’s gift to me
October 29, 2014
Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus, that brought
countless ills upon the Achaeans.
Many a brave soul did it send
hurrying down to Hades, and many a hero did it yield a prey to dogs
and vultures, for so were the counsels of Jove fulfilled from the
day on which the son of Atreus, king of men, and great Achilles, first
fell out with one another.
And which of the gods was it that set them on to quarrel? It was the
son of Jove and Leto; for he was angry with the king and sent a
pestilence upon the host to plague the people, because the son of
Atreus had dishonoured Chryses his priest.
Now Chryses had come to the
ships of the Achaeans to free his daughter, and had brought with him a
great ransom: moreover he bore in his hand the sceptre of Apollo
wreathed with a suppliant’s wreath and he besought the Achaeans, but
most of all the two sons of Atreus, who were their chiefs.
“Sons of Atreus,” he cried, “and all other Achaeans, may the gods
who dwell in Olympus grant you to sack the city of Priam, and to reach
your homes in safety; but free my daughter, and accept a ransom for
her, in reverence to Apollo, son of Jove.”
October 28, 2014
at the jumble sale
the photo of someone’s grandma,
she smiles at me
October 27, 2014
dim skies, vague yearning
rising tides, falling waters
time passing in waves
October 26, 2014
Under the long green hair of pepper trees,
The writers and composers work the street.
Bach’s new score is crumpled in his pocket,
Dante sways his ass-cheeks to the beat.
The city is named for the angels,
And its angels are easy to find.
They give off a lubricant odor,
Their eyes are mascara-lined;
At night you can see them inserting
For breakfast they gather at poolside
Where screenwriters feed and swim.
Every day, I go to earn my bread
In the exchange where lies are marketed,
Hoping my own lies will attract a bid.
It’s Hell, it’s Heaven: the amount you earn
Determines if you play the harp or burn.
Gold in their mountains,
Oil on their coast;
Dreaming in celluloid
Profits them most.