Insolence

The morning begins with a remonstrance against tapers,  

which I am likely to kindle

in the event of imminent misfortune 

habitually induced by her well-executed schemes.  

I ignore all that demeans:

her lips become agitated with narratives 

of the ills of the present 

and all that is deceased!

The afternoon heats up with the lava of her eruptive moods,

which have nothing to do with the weather 

or her blood pressure, 

besides she is long past the menopause.

No siesta is possible in such an infernal abode.

I simmer over slow-burning coal

and bite my tongue before it protrudes.

The evening always puts the final touches to a day of gall.

She harvests her crops with a single panoramic look

at my eclipsed moon,

at my ill-zipped lips,

struggling to block the release of a few words,

which eventually find their way out per force.

With damn your insolence, the night is concluded.

The Moon

The moon is neither a goddess,

nor a harbinger of doom 

when heralded by the howls of wolves.

It plays no role in the malevolent rites

of Dracula’s resurrection lore.

It is not the necromancer who inflicts lunacy

or changes the substance of nocturnal thoughts. 

It is simply a marvelous piece of masonry,

a celestial, megalithic stone,

chiseled by the Architect of the World.

Departed

Departed is the fellowship of swallows from our skies,

the stately clouds that cling to its own trails like excited brides,

the allure of the sea that entices swimmers who are without

apprehension about any lurking sharks.

Fishermen report hearing strange noises

that make them collect their nets with fear-driven speed,

and People living on the coast 

dread at most 

a hurricane’s holocaust.

It sounds like the end of days,

but I do not believe it is.

Have you ever contemplated wrestling with a demon? 

Have you ever contemplated wrestling with a demon,

in a combat that flexes the muscles of your brain?

They reiterate that it is not a being

with a couple of horns 

and a hideous mien.

In a battle of intellects,

demons are adept in the lingual spheres, 

so one can have recourse to literary language

since they need not consult any dictionaries!

On Thomas Malory’s Morte d’arthur

Why does he have to be the fruit of lust,

of a ploy that involves the shedding of blood,

conceived by Merlin, 

the dream-reader with a high expertise in the occult?

For some this amounts to defamation of character

in the modern sense of the word,

since they believe no chivalry is begotten 

from evil deception or sexual misconduct.

A true king cannot be weaned by a thought-reading

and shape-shifting wizard!