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Temperance

Those nice icy eyes
will farm your voice.

Those nice icy eyes
will charm you whole.

Those nice icy eyes
will warm you for
a while. 

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Rave

To Dylan Thomas, the bluffer.   Go drunk into that dark night. Rave, rave with your self’s shadow, dance. Dance to electric, acid drums. Go drunk into that dark night alight by fluorescent wristbands. Rave against living, against dawn.   Lay bare, under a dark sky, what we all are. Go to the bathroom stalls, past the raving crowd, break in line and start a fist fight. Get drunk and  scarred, animal. Smile, neon bloodied, at oblivion. Rave against all lights unflickering, against all unbroken bones, against those who dance and those who don’t: be an asshole. And dance, dance electric seraph, dance, dance to acid drums.

Manuscript found in Lord Byron’s bookcase

                                                                                                                                                                                                                            To Percy, light upon his waterbed.     I’m the Scorpion King.   Beware, not the Camel King, nor, albeit my rattling ways, a snakish one.   My reign is a desolate wasteland which I, myself, have created. Where dumb-dumb  Ozymandiases  rust. Where mythologies go to die like an, oh so secretive, fart. Far away enough of people so they can pass quietly and unheard.   My reign is also of venom: purulent, vicious. Highly alcoholic melancholy, not of lethargic rest but instead breeder of anxious sleep, of bad poetry during late hours best served for onanistic endeavors.   ¡Behold the Scorpion King!   ¡Behold my drunkenness, ye mighty, and compare: the width of your temples to the size of my ding-dong!   Only one of them remains. Funny looking scorpion tail amidst ass and belly