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ponderous poetry for the hoi polloi

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moon

Reverie

On such lonesome nights as these,

When the joyous pendant of tourmaline yellow

No longer drips from the sky’s neck,

My mind does seek abstraction,

A momentary distraction,

As my heart wanders through a

Crowd of fireflies,

Those nightly buttercups

Which do turn their eager heads

In search of kisses

So cruelly postponed,

Yet so carefully recreated in my

Febrile brain,

As my thoughts,

Dancing behind closed eyelids,

Like the coiled tendrils of a

Citrullus plant,

Turn to your mouth,

And though miles may separate me from you,

And you from me,

My face does still glow gold as the

Sun on your

Lips.

Benedizione

You’re the toffee apple of my eye,

Crystal iris,

Honeyed-pie,

Manning the wheel in that woeful sky,

How blessed I am to be by your side.

 

You’re my milkweed butterfly,

Stained glass window,

Glacial spy,

With looking glass wings fresh from Versailles,

How blessed I am to be by your side.

 

Yes, you’re my polysaccharide,

Multi-grain,

Half bottle of rye,

But enough to make me pumpkin pie-eyed,

How blessed I am to be by your side.

 

You’re even my silver iodide,

For every cloud

Has a silver line, in

Case you didn’t hear me first time,

How blessed I am to be by your side.

 

You’re the saint that drives my tides,

Roman goddess,

The sunshine’s bride,

Games divine without design

And how blessed I am to be,

Indisputably,

By your

Side.

The Night Owl

Who-o-o, who-o-o!

 

Hark!

I’m a night owl,

No need to lark about,

That featherbrained flyer and midnight-cryer,

Call it agitated depression?

Or a major obsession?

For me it’s more than a

Moonlight requisition,

Oh she can’t come soon enough!

 

So call me a madman, a crazy, a

Lunatic… tock… tick… tock on the

Midnight clock,

I’m that odd sock,

Sending love letters by semaphore to the

Crystal rock,

With frantic arms and

Lips on lock,

But still the clock goes

Tock… tick… tock…

 

Who-o-o, who-o-o!

Dear Hans

Eh! Lippershey!

What a foolish man you’ve turned out to be,

To have wasted your time on

Such unnecessaries,

How could you not see?

This ball of midnight magic!

 

She’s so gloriously obvious,

So obviously glorious,

The girl with the alien tongue,

Space oddity, cosmic commodity,

And so delectably different from me…

 

And you… and you… and you!

 

But keep your hands off, Hans,

And put your telescope away, old chap!

She’s mine to keep,

Locked deep within my paralysed mind,

Behind feverish eyes,

She skips through black jack skies,

 

That girl so familiarly foreign to me.

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