Pronoun Drama
I: welcome, everyone, it's fine for a show!! Are you ready?
Everyone: here! Ready!
You: why are you singling me out?!
Me: I'm sorry who's asking for me?
I: what are you talking about, I'm not sorry for a thing?
You: you do realise I'm right here, at least look at me when you're speaking to m-
Me: I don't... Think they were talking to me, they were speaking to you actua-
They: you dumbasses better not bring me into this
Me: thank you They!
You: fucking they... You're welcome, me
I: God he is sooooo self-absorbed
He: what? Is that- is that really what everyone thinks of me?
Everyone: what?! No, no, oh god we just wanted to see a show T-T
We: *shovelling popcorn, staring* the show's already started, pull up a chair will ya? We'll be here all night
Rondo a la tourque
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
mesquite, that final crucial flavoring,
rhe wood used to enliven the tar,
with hear and spirit, was a necessary,
point of justice.
some shall say more crucial,
than the redundant feathers.
a sprinkling of the ground screwbeans,
upon the tortured head,
the blakened head of the villain,
will infuse him with yet better appreciation of the requirements,
of a peacful society.
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
let's see that spinner mop,
cleverly encapsulated,
in the monk's garment,
oh how did he manged to conceal it?
that endless mechnism,
a work of Archimedes,
you pump and stirr the cirle mop,
pump and stirr away,
a useful tool,
yet useless without,
the reciprocally minded,
kindred bucket.
which william holds, two.
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
bedeviled eggs, and not deviled ones,
are sulferous, creations,
layed by a headless chicken,
boiled by Beelzebub,
spiced by Azzael,
a picnic snack for a satan who hopes,
hopes for salmonella.
eat not of the accursed,
offerings of the evil one,
yet know them well,
know that the mayonnaise stains,
shall forever mar the garment.
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
a hystoric reliquary kept,
in a cotton lined pocket,
a toothbrush, its bristles nowfrayed,
that once protected a line of kings,
from gengevites,
from cavitation of the molars.
a kingly affliction, and preventable,
it was reasoned, by a brushing,
by the servants.
passed with care
from one usurper to another.
none died of tooth decay.
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
list of contents so comprised,
to detail the contents of each chamber,
each hoard, each parting,
carefully classified,
to ease the future search,
to prevent the misplacing,
jotted down with quill and ink,
the summery of all things.
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
and who to william shall be pet,
a kindred spirit,
in devotion to containing?
no kangaroo found he, alas,
neither a wombat, or a Tasmanian devil.
with all his efforts,
and despite his learning,
found he just a 'possum.
that dramatic actor,
who never laments his demise,
in parting verse,
but plays dead so well.
it has a warm corner in the pocket.
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
leprosy is no joke,
no thing to wash away,
and while it is relatively mild
with humans today,
it is a death sentence to fairies,
the leprechaun in william's pocket is one such afflicted,
pocked and sickned,
it whispers in stupor of his pot of gold.
the caring monk feeds him,
a broth of herbs,
keeping the Irish spirit,
from fuming away.
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
ceiling wax is a needful thing,
ceilings don't shine on their own,
and through that, we must apply the waxmachine to climb the wall and buff.
it was no wonder,
that Hector the hero of troy feared it,
a well-buffed ceiling scared the warrior.
it was ceiling wax , his Achilles heel,
that drove him,
into the comfort,
of labyrinthine pursuits,
those soothing rough walls,
those moldy overhangs,
distracted the prince greatly,
driving him to no better waste of time,
all that's left is a clay tablet,
a memento Hector kept,
of a rugged cavern.
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
life's not hard, it is viscous,
said the wizend monk,
and he kept a capillary viscometer,
to prove his point.
the visecctitudes,
those slingsband arrows are hard,
or so they seem.
but if we want to get technical,
we must ask "how hard"
and since 'very' ,
is no worthy reply,
we must treat it as a liquid.
here we measure,
after liquification,
the essential resistance to movement,
the outrageous fortune drains down the narrow capillary, and with an hourglass,
he knows.
yes, life is very viscous;
more than honey, more than tar,
it drips down, sorrowfully fast,
and yet agonizingly slow.
life is viscous, rubbery stuff,
but 'tiss no hard steel, or gemstone.
to crush, less you let it.
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
in Sierra Madre, liath the mine,
known only now to Dobbs.
'consceince, what a thing! 'said he,
'if you believe you got one, it'll drive you to death. if you don't, believe, it can do nothin to ya!'
concience is like a treasure map,
you may have an X with gold under it,
you may have an X with naught.
but you can't have a map,
without that X.
in okham, william knows,
many hidden Xs ,
figuratively and literary.
let's talk of william of okham's pockets,
those deep gray enclosures,
in his franciscan habit,
the avowed poverty of his life,
the want of even dye in his clothes,
did not penetrate his mind,
with shallow thoughts,
but with a pomegranate's worth,
of casual thoughts.
but his pocket was the real deal,
a treasuretrove of paralelled subtelty.
hidden in compartments numbering thirteen, he cstegorized,
the things he kept, leacing nothing out.
a thing of compression, compassion,
and comparison. he cut through it all,
and fitted in those holes,
to his satisfaction.
the viscosity of life
vis·cos·i·ty
the state of being thick,
and semifluid in consistency.
resistance to change,
progress met with animosity.
moving through years like they are made of slime,
bounced backwards by the elasticity.
when answers are met with doubt
can we ever truly satiate our curiosity?
is innovation even possible
when it's opposed with such ferocity?
questions without answer
ever increasing in their velocity.
vis·cos·i·ty
resistance of a liquid to sheer forces
do we dare tout our virtuosity
when just like life we were born to resist
a viscous monstrosity?
should we push against our nature
soothe our gulosity?
or is it easier to be the way we are?
immovable in our viscosity.
Rings of power
Rings,
powerfully lightning me.
The Truth They Gifted.
The Message they injected me.
Middle Earth.
Mother lode potato people,
brogue midgets,
dirty, loathsome.
Full of it.
Middle Earth,
Nazi elven haven;
discount Legolas and kitchen wench,
kill universe of orcs.
A million at least.
Each one.
Middle Earth
Men three classes only:
gay, eunuch and trans.
Warriors, not able,
to raise a fork;
not to talk,
of swords.
Middle Earth
sociopath egos in maniac skirts
rule it,
strongly, womanly.
How do babies come,
from men no men
and Ueberfrauen loving
shouting solitude,
rudeness, selfish and destruction?
Middle Earth,
no more.
Yet yes,
in the middle
of the cheeks is now.
Not
cheeks
of face.
Tolkien’s grave --
no ventilator
needed now,
with,
Rings of power.
Hector
Hey you! Stop now ! Turn off your radio jingles that you and I both know the Principality of Andorra should reject, and listen up. In this insensitively sensitive day and age, we often wonder why pronouns can't get along, but no one wants the facts. No, we're all happy to live as mezzanines in the age of uncertainty. So sit down, and knock off your screwbean mesquite and tar n' featherin for beginners, because here comes the truth. You see, it all started with the contents in William of Ockham's pockets. William of Ockham was tormented all his life. He was often bullied as a child, which is why many believed he sought refuge in the Catholic Church. Insults were constantly thrown at him "Ye yellow bellied sapsucker", his peers would shout, "Thou art nothing but a half wit product of poor dental hygiene in the Carolingian Dynasty." And so he left, and designed himself a cloak that would make all the others jealous, with pockets so large they made ladies faint and kings cry. And they contained quills, magical quills! And enchanted candles, and lots of powerful mushrooms. This guy had it all! And he wrote. He wrote so much that the magic from the quills soaked into his body. This guy was magical! Anything he wrote people believed. Three Marsupials Too Few, and Riddle Me This?! This shit was more gibberish than the language itself and people read it! They thought it could make them wise. But then he made a mistake. He got bold with his magic and lost it all. He warned the public of a vision he had of an Irish rebellion that would overtake England. This rebellion was bad. England was going to become Irish and no one was doing anything. In his vision he saw leprous leprechauns emerging from the horizons and there were so many. Too many to count. And they were using spinner mops as weapons. No weapon stands a chance against spinner mops. They're powerful. Conjured from dark magic maybe. But spinner mops weren't invented yet, and the people were scared. They came after Ockham and charged him with witchcraft and colluding with the devil. "Thou hath an innocent in thy clutches", he roared, "'Tis the maid! The wretch served me bedeviled eggs! She's the real witch". The crowd wouldn't have it, and Ockham was hanged. He had just enough time for one last bout of vengeance. The old riddling scalawag was in fact a warlock, and he cursed society upon his death, casting the future to an ill-fated fog of gender confusion that would only worsen with time. But fear not, the viscosity of life is far too strong to let the story end here.
With his curse, old Ockham left a clue. As the curse spread across the land, whispers rang through the ears of every man, woman and child. "Hector, the son of Priam's unreasonable fascination with ceiling wax". Those final words were dulled with time as decades turned to centuries, and many forgot. But Ockham spoke true. In a small hardware store in a little town in Australia, there lived a man named Priam. Most people think there's nothing in Australia, and some don't think it exists at all. But they're wrong. That little town is as real as Australia, and it was designed as a decoy to keep the gold mine a secret. The gold has to be hidden from the wild camels. Because everyone knows camels are jerks and they'll steal the gold for themselves. Priam was just a regular guy, undiscovered and alone, and obsessed with ceiling wax. But there's a tragedy behind that obsession. Priam was scarred by the melancholy ending of his family's shingle manufacturing corporation. They didn't use enough ceiling wax and all the shingles fell off. He always warned them not to skimp on the ceiling wax. It just keeps it all together, you know. But they wouldn't listen. Just like how no one listened to William of Ockham. So that's why Hector is hidden. That's the real secret of the goldmine. Priam was aware of the prophecy the whole time, and he knew his son Hector was the chosen one. No one else put it together and that's what made Priam laugh. "This world doesn't deserve salvation, and I won't let them have it." So there's your answer. That's why there's too many genders to keep track of.
The Viscosity of Life
I guess what I thought is true
The only right one for you is you
I always wondered like Ruth
What really was the truth
Oh, you've ties that bind
And you're out of your mind
My eyes were never blind
I know all about your kind
And I went right in there
Without illusions
But I never really did care
We just like to share
My friends and I
We did on a stare, so
It could never be
Your delusion
I guess what you say is true
In bed, you really have no clue
And your pompous mind turns blue
Thinking all the time about food
Trying to tell you to cut back
It does no good, and you never would
You think your butt looks good, so
I guess what they say is true
You and I were never meant to be
I think we have always been through
And you haven't got a clue
I told you so, and still you
Come around like a loser
Come around because you're untrue
Come around feelin' cruel