URGENT NEWS for my 5 regular readers:
I am guilty of taking the easy way out of poetry-blogging.
Yes, lyrical brothers and sisters, I have committed online crimes. I have posted any random video found to be amusing or relevant instead of being TRUE to my VERSE.
BitChutes and YouTubes have been impulsively embedded here at ConnectHook, instead of opening the splendorous portals of Poetry for my loyal readers to enter. I have not self-promoted sufficiently. Instead, I have veered off into culture warring, esthetic/political provocation, and endless agit-prop. Oh sweet muse, long suffering mentor, matrix and moonbeam-milker, FORGIVE ME. Withdraw not the sweet rivulets and gushing springs of your lyric inspiration. Pour out upon my readers, from the crystal pitcher of your pure poetic sources, a life-giving stream of living waters. Cast out the demons of boring modernist free-verse and incoherent identity-politics drivel. Long-suffering muse of mine, restore us one and all back to POETRY— the only reason to live and to love, the only antidote to an unfunny clownworld hell-bent on self-destruction. Remember not my poetic sins, oh faithful lover of my soul— be merciful unto me, dear lady of lyrical laughter and light.
SPRAY THEM with poetry oh muse;
MOW them DOWN with the Gatling-gun of your golden graces.
…cause itz ALL about tha POETRY, y’all.
Rhyming verse is a woman scorned
to whom lip service must be paid.
Set free from meter, unadorned
Her lyric fury waits, delayed
as she rambles on in a free verse swoon,
oblivious to whoever’s listening,
babbling to the crescent moon
illuminated, horned and glistening,
bathing her deluded mind
in lunar metaphors of doom.
Do not provoke her—treat her kind
and let her pass to a padded room
or an attic space beneath the eves
where she can rant and find release;
until her frenzied soul believes
that words have meaning…
and rests in peace.
But sure the antique Greeks were far more mild,
Else of our Sex, why feigned they those nine
And poesy made Calliope’s own child?
Huntress, fill my pleading glass !
Let this marksman’s blood be merry.
Whether we shoot hind or ass,
Hail our wet preliminary.
Having brought to birth such brave quadruplets,
Let us toast the midwife with our couplets.
Sweet Diana pours her rounds:
Tawny Port and Shooting Sherry.
Hares now flee the baying hounds
For their country sanctuary.
Thine the night, oh bright and savage huntress;
Lead us to the quarry, chaste Artemis.
Conejito, hide yourself
From the charging adversary
Who would change your pelt for pelf;
(All close shaves are cautionary).
Forgive our clanging gong and sounding brass;
They serve to drive the quarry from the grass.
Healing balm: such sporting frolic,
Dares us to stay sedentary;
Banishing our melancholic
State, her bright apothecary!
Wild huntress, let us know you as the Greeks
And quiver as our heart your arrow seeks.
Toast we now the careless hunt;
Spoonerists wax luminary.
Visions of the hairless cunt
Make my lay discretionary.
ye POETS, SWAINS and MUSES
Thus ends National Poetry Writing Month
I bid you all fair Adieu.
Trip away, make no stay / Meet me all by break of day . . .