Sonnets.

Horace.

Some people say that the day should be seized,
snapped from the branch while the dew’s on the plum,
but I say such fruits are more apt to please
if given a chance to soak up the sun.
It hardly seems fitting, never mind sweet,
to fall for the country, wrongly enticed
to think dawn-lit fruits are better to eat;
unsunwarmed plums make for mouthfuls of ice.
If plucked, then, from bed, and forced to be out,
will my coat cling, thick with frost, as I go,
or will it fall free, weighed down by sunlight,
to hang from a branch while I doze below?
May you live your way and mine not bemoan,
all life’s devoured and leaves but a stone.

* * *

The Blow Jobbery.

I think of your smile, for when we were young
Your teeth were parted and there on your tongue
My penis bobbed like a pink eel in flight
Sailing through oceans of cummy delight.
My happy eel would spring out from the kelp
When your hands slid down to unclasp my belt
You’d work like an Argo, then with a groan
I’d spray your pearly white teeth with hot foam.
But those days are gone now, so I must swoon
And get what I can in public bathrooms
For woe is me girl, our love is no more
My eel is spent and dried up on the shore.
Smile dear acquaintance and then while we kiss,
Let me think back on your sperm dappled lips.

* * *

Iago.

‘Tis folly, friend, to heed those who proclaim
Their own glory. As for myself, I fear
The tongues (and these I too much entertain)
That will laud my own goodness on my ears.
A gloating fox, who extols his own coat
Will lack for a hare to warm up his guts,
But hares erect for a sweet voiced fox note:
Fox love affairs sour as fox jaws snap shut.
Yet I let tongues wag close and feel their breath,
And from such happenstance comes woven proof.
Whelps make chase for my sport, wherefore suggest
That sly lies lurk cloaked in obvious truth?
Curs spring from leashes, to lick at my hand,
I wear dress of office and I command.

* * *

Nocturnal.

As the day threatens, I’ll take to my bed,
And as the stars loom, I shall rise refreshed,
No sunflower, you can call me instead,
A wee happy mushroom who loves night best.
Ah! times I’ve tried—but have never managed,
To live in the glare of that awful bulb,
School sought to dislodge—but failed to damage,
Passions for blisses, from reverie culled.
Yet do I suffer the wrath of the tanned,
Strutting ‘round, melanoma infected?
Keep all your picnics and bloody beach sand,
I’ll keep shadows and live undetected.
Under the moon with night creatures I dance,
Noctur’een orphan by proud circumstance.

* * *

The Mantis.

Perched on my headboard as I woke that day,
This curious one turned to consider
My approach, watching with her dull green eyes,
And my eyes, too, sized my queer visitor.
This is a girl of malevolent charm,
For twisting acts of the love ritual
Will invoke this shrike to choke her love’s arms
And then transform his head to her victual.
Yet I rule before her (unlike her mates,
Who quietly creep, praying advances
Won’t provoke quick mandibles at their fate)
For in one hand I could crush this mantis.
Yet though she sees me, she’s fearless and still,
Gently I’ll bear her to my windowsill.