Poetry

Seasons in the Abyss

From the June 2013 magazine

Du Fu, you doofus, that’s not
a goose. You’re drunk.
Please allow me to introduce…
no, that’s not your horse.
(No, nor woman neither.)

Into every life a little
Freud must fall. I’m a fraud.
I stole that pun. Like I said:
I’m afraid. Into every light
a little moth must blunder…

Cue power ballad.
I don’t know what to call a spade.
The sky will lately swish stuff.
I open my barbaric yap.
Du Fu joins me on the veranda.

We are old and full of crap.
The millionaires across the way,
their homes are all ablaze.
We like it when those homes collapse
like moths before clichés.

  • Guest

    This is an awesome poem. Thanks for publishing it. I can’t wait for Robbins to put Ted Hash-Berryman out of his misery in that contest.

  • Z.S.Baldwin

    Now I’m not one to quarrel with the obvious
    moral, so if I hadn’t already died of laughter
    I’d hang your scrawny scalp up next to mine
    on the topmost rafter. You could say
    (you’d be the last) I’m under the influence,
    now that it’s clear what I’m after
    (like a tadpole dying to be a prince)
    squirming through that Bible verse
    translated into velociraptor.

    MR, you make my day!