I, El Desdichado, Lord & Master of ConnectHook DEMAND recognition as The Most Boring Poetry Blogger.
You’ll never touch me so don’t even TRY.
Don’t even bother dipping your quill again,
you mere drip on the mildewed scroll of antediluvian parchment,
you cuneiform Cunégonde, you proto-Canaanite pottery fragment,
you keyboarding clown-failure and archeological relic
unworthy of preservation in a third-rate underfunded Albanian museum…
I, and I alone, dragged myself up from the protoplasmic slime to BORE you.
I transitioned from amphibian to anthropoid before your mama even MET the postman.
I stood upright upon the bloody battleground of evolutionary struggle
and SELECTEDMYSELF(naturally).
Now pass that banana right here.
Dedicated to the Voice of Empyrean Epiphanies, the Queen of Spades and the Mother of Kushite Soul-Mamas, who placed the black box here after it was taken from the depths where the wreckage of the plane was found by sonar in the Indian Ocean near the ruins of the ancient submerged city.
retrieved from the wreckage / the box reveals the final seconds / descent into panic / end of the line of flight / true disco / the call of the empty air / an unknown diva singing out her heartache / pastoral idylls in smoking ruins / the once-green Sahara / the herdsmen’s piping to the vanished flocks / it’s all there in the black box / the pilot’s final glimpse / earth rising / the ultimate kiss of terra firma/ semiotext(e) / disco-bolo / temporary autonomous zones / islands of intensity / siren song of the eternal queen / spades & clubs / vistas of urban sadness seen in passing from a car window / something lost, found, and lost again forever in the early 1990’s / woe to those who hear too much in a cheap dance tune…
I like this medley of ancient chants and rhymes for Yuletide by the King family:
MERRY CHRISTMAS2016
(Good time to drag out my Yuletide poem written in 2014):
Mithras Invites You to Saturnalia
As concerning therefore the eating of those things that are offered in sacrifice unto idols,
we know that an idol is nothing in the world, and that there is none other God but one. For though there be that are called gods, whether in heaven or in earth,
(as there be gods many, and lords many,)
But to us there is but one God, the Father, of whom are all things,
and we in him; and one Lord Jesus Christ, by whom are all things, and we by him.
I Corinthians 8 [KJV]
Roll a Yule log on the fire
and let the mystery-cult inspire.
What Persians, Gauls, and Romans knew
could teach us all a thing or two
about midwinter celebrations
warming frigid Northern nations.
The Phrygian cap he used to wear,
holly entwined with evergreens
still linger in our current year
recalling dim pre-Christian scenes.
Some strange vestigial rites remain:
The specter of the Lydian Bishop.
No bull – but reindeer pull his train
spreading love, inspiring worship
mixed with Nordic pageantry,
barbaric sensuality,
and glimmers of Medieval night;
His season beckons, burning bright.
In England’s prim polyphony
voices call across the centuries
no remnant of tauroctony
resurrecting pagan memories.
Drunks and rebels hum the tunes –
they lift the cup, they cast the runes
participating unawares
in Eleusinian affairs
like office parties, trees in houses:
timeless ritual that rouses
peace and love—goodwill to men.
(is it so diabolic then?)
Ghosts of Roman soldiers laugh:
the sun-god wears a funny hat.
His bull was just a golden calf
that grew up sacrificially fat.
Who cares when Christ was born, or where—
the point is: God appeared on earth
to set the record straight, lay bare
unwelcome truth: the second birth.
A new religion superseded
what had been before. It needed
rituals to syncretize
(no drastic sin, in heaven’s eyes).
Why rail against it? What is wrong
with festive fare and holy song?
You think you can set back the clock?
destroy the sun or banish God?
Why agitate the Shepherd’s flock;
in vain you would restrain His rod…
Since Christ is all in all why bother
searching out old gods to smother?
Who denies He rules the ages
mocks your idols, stumps the sages?
And so you are without excuse
for finding reasons to be mad –
committing holy child-abuse
and making mother Mary sad.
Why fight the vibe, why square the wheel?
No point in Scrooging up the deal.
Just kiss beneath God’s mistletoe
and let the blessed season flow.
