Children are not humble; they are
Stubborn and amoral,
Just as the Morays and
Clownfish in the reefs of coral
That prey upon their neighbors
As starving Saxons at a feast.
If I were humble as a child,
I’d throw tantrums at a priest.
I do wish pride could be cast away like
A child’s food when they’ve been excited.
Then, the pangs of injury would
Be not felt when I am slighted.
The wooden oak slab squeaked
On hinges well-oiled
As my hand’s sebaciousness
The molested hardwood soiled.
Thirsty, I the threshold crossed
Into the bathroom’s cloister.
Behind the blackened screen could
Be heard the crickets’ boister.
Cleanly brushing and flossing
Over the marble sink,
Stood I musing at the skies
Coloured no longer pink.
With a fresh mouth freed
Of odor and taste,
I could now savour water
And its freshness not waste.
Dampening the pump’s shaft
Where the sink should be,
I welled up my desire by
Pumping the handle lustily.
A cool stream unevenly flowed into
A coopered bucket with metal bands.
Quenching, with catharsis I drank from
The large, iron ladle in my hands.
The virgins were sacrificed
For fun and for pleasure.
Moctezuma gazed over Tenochtitlan,
Blinking at his leisure.
The nation was arrayed in
The formation of victory;
They’d exterminated the strangers,
With the exception of two or three
Trained in the art of surrender
And broken captivity.
Their leader’s beard was to be used
In religious ceremony.
The fool who’d tried to conquer
The Aztecs was now dead.
His body was mutilated,
As was Cortez’s head.
After the defeat none
Of his ilk would dare invade.
The rumblings of a war-like people
Made a throbbing serenade.
The Spaniards had come
For Glory, God, and Gold;
They’d met dishonour, their God,
And the decaying mold.
The prisoners of doom
Had the vengeance of ague.
Smallpox to the Aztecs is
Like in Europe the black plague.
The existence of a nation
By smallpox was mended,
Just as the world
On their calendar ended.
Your wrists are so blue and vibrant and rich
That they’ve made a passion within to itch
As I sit near you watching blue streaks jump.
I feel passing breathless, though mine lungs pump.
Think I how lovely it would be
To have your arms tightly round me,
Wrist closed crossed slightly behind my neck.
Thus embraced, your lips I would peck.
And I’d tremble, though not for kiss,
But from sheer joy and oozing bliss
At having your love trickle down
My vertebral spine from the frown
Upon each wrist that I you gave
Because my passion’d not behave.
They tempted me sore with their tunnels
Passing fair that, as if with funnels,
Must be drained. Note I did not slit
Lengthwise, thus you’d live a tad bit
Longer or perchance die not at all,
As winter blocked by eternal fall.
Lifelessly listless you’ve become
While hugging me to death, and some
Of you pools on my back. My pet
Your love stains much as runner’s sweat:
Lumbarly collected at the tail
With thoracic ellipses, as well.
While your pallor groweth more pale,
Our chemistry doth I inhale.
“Good ladies and good gentlemen,
And those of gentler births,
I stand before you here today
For a crime that is the worst.
But before ye yet judge me
With a sentence that shan’t waver,
Please, let me inform you
Of how I did him a courteous favor.
I gave him the goodwill of death,
As goodwill to all must be.
How can you possibly think
This was ill of me?
Some people may nod or wave
Or shake another’s hand,
But me, I merely accosted him with
A smile and laid him out in the sand.
This earth is a cruél place,
What with kids and wives and rent;
He’s probably up there thanking me
Now that his life is spent.
How rather unfortunate
You’ve taken this the wrong way;
Perhaps you’ll understand when you
Have the goodwill of death someday.”
“Why do the angels scream?
Why do they let tears fall?
What has happened to their wings?
Why hath they their fair eyes clawed?”
“Lament they o’er nothing;
They are afraid of the dark.
Sadly has cold fear on seas
Tossed begun to embark.”
“Why do the angels scream?
Of what dark fearest they?
Light of brilliance does surround,
Cast by He to whom we pray.”
“Lament they o’er nothing;
God’s merely left their fold.
Like a mother with child away
Are they without Him to behold.”
“Why do the angels scream?
Is not He their master?
An He travels where He likes,
How canst it be disaster?”
“Lament they o’er nothing;
God vacations in Hell
To visit Fire and Brimstone
And all His angels which fell.”
“Why do the angels scream,
An God’s on vacation?
He did so on the seventh day;
Such is not below His station.”
“Lament they o’er nothing;
They only overreact.
He’s used omnipotence
To fix what He hath lacked.”
“Why do the angels scream,
An God’s more complete?
How canst they criticize He
For whom they grovel at feet?”
“Lament they o’er nothing;
Evil He found more fun.
He decided He’d be Satan,
An He was anyone.”
“Why do the angels scream;
The Lord can be all things?
Why’re they afraid of the dark?
What has happened to their wings?”
“Lament they o’er nothing;
In the dark they’re alone.
Without servitude’s duty,
Passing insane have they grown.”
“Why do the angels scream?
Despise they an day off?
The longer He is in Hell,
The less at them can He scoff.”
“Lament they o’er nothing;
He’s never to return.
Desolation they comprehend
Finally, since He did them spurn.”
“Why do the angels scream
And venture not to Him?
Golden cities are naught
Without their finest gems.”
“Lament they o’er nothing;
They’ve but been forsaken.
Now they art devils, and wings
From their backs hath been shaken.”
“Why did God betray them?
What taint could so corrode?
An angels do lack leadership,
Then for humans this does forebode.”
“Forsook them because of I,
The Prince of Deceptive Might.
Now canst I command heaven,
In the absence of light.”
I put my love in a sycamore tree
To let her sobre out,
For she breathes jack o’ the daniels
And is a drunken lout.
I put my love in a sycamore tree
Because she likes to scream and shout,
But, when I climbed up to bring her down,
She tried to push me out.
I put my love in a sycamore tree,
But she didn’t seem to care;
All that she did was ignore me
And play with the birdies there.
I put my love in a sycamore tree
With the winds and rains and snow
Blowing harshly around her ears,
But none of this phased her, though.
I put my love in a sycamore tree,
Perchance I should’ve put her in a bush.
For now, when I try to talk,
She but merely tells me “shush.”
I put my love in a sycamore tree,
And I regret the day I did;
For my love jumped right out,
Ran away, and hid.
Loki loves me, this I know,
For my mischief tells me so.
He loves the way I deceive
And make you my lies believe.
Loki approves of my fraud,
For he is the trickster god.
He milked cows for some eight years,
And for Baldr ne’er shed tears.
Loki give me Freyja’s cloak
So that I might play a joke
While in the form of a bird,
Or a creature more absurd.
Loki is known as a thief;
He liked to cause the gods grief.
He engineered their demise,
Loki’s the Wizard of Lies.
Loki was a man of course,
But gave birth to Odin’s horse.
Loki retrieved Thor’s hammer.
He escaped from the slammer.
His daughter Hel rules the dead;
The Midgard Serpent he bred.
His son Fenrir’d slay Odin,
After Loki’d tricked Idun.
Loki loves me, and I know
He can kill with mistletoe.
With such a man as my muse,
There is no way I can lose.
As the rain beats a kettle drum,
I remember when it started.
Like other victims of my love,
She was sweet and tender hearted.
I never appreciated
Her—like the others. We parted.
Once one said that she loved me, and
My heart lept about and darted.
But my mind did not share the same
Feeling, but instead regarded
Her as a nothing that spoke words
Of no consequence. We parted.
I couldn’t sail the seas of love
To lands I had never charted
In romance’s exploration.
Indeed, I was too faint hearted
To venture too far from the shore,
Lest I fall off, thus we parted.
I couldn’t master my feelings,
For I was so simple hearted.
I know now my emotional
Maturity was retarded.
I couldn’t realize love’s effects,
So ultimately we parted.
I never managed to receive
The affection they’d imparted.
I didn’t, wouldn’t want to learn
To love, for I was hard hearted.
When I finally die alone,
None will notice I’ve departed.
Women are pernicious drugs.
How evil the addiction!
You take ’em in your body,
And then begins affliction.
They change your mind and desires
With their chemical hormones.
With ease you grow tolerant
To them, and they will cause moans
Should you go through withdrawal,
Making you curse existence.
Once you’ve experimented,
You will have no resistance.
I’m going cold turkey from
You. It was sure good I found
You for what we shared, though
You left me after the rebound.
As I watch you go away,
I cannot suppress the thought
Of looking back on Sodom,
Thinking I’d like to be salt.
Surely it is worth the view.
The pain I feel is my fault,
For I committed the sin
When I let my mind exalt
You when I was suffering.
I should have had more control.
I had nothing to offer
But my blemished, condemned soul.
Now that your pity’s ended,
And we’ve satisfied our lust,
You’ve no patience for me, and
I drove you away, I trust.
Midnight Musings from Melancholy Muses 