Non curo. Si metrum non habet, non est poema.

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The Dread Philosophy, Fruits & Satire of the Secret Drunken Kung Fool Society.

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Profound teachings set down for the Education & Mirth of the Trodden Masses,

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By the Hidden & Sublime Master, Hope of Dreamers, Fools and Rogues:

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Don strangepeade, sublime knight of Roguish Antics and High Silliness,

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Guardian and Transmitter of this August Tome,

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And Fearless Contemplator of Bonfires, Barbecues and Laughter,

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Whom Thee should all be most Wise to Consider if Thy Lives to be Richer.

 

 

 

i. Please see iv. firstly…

ii. And not the start do thy kindly eyes first do gaze upon…

iii. But some of the numbering be most confusing and stressing upon the thinking parts…

iv. To feel the words, as opposed to reading them, one’s belly should have a goodly amount of wine already presently and warmly.

v. Chapters are newest to last and consider this note to be i. firstly…

 

 

Chapter I     Which began with a Fire and did end with my Father who did come to the Period. Chicken-Scratched October 2007 to Febuarary 2008.

46. The Fire

Before the Fire,

My Fire went higher,

Our Fire,

My Fire,

Higher together,

Higher.

My life.

Our Lives: the logs.

And Time: the fire.

And we burn.

In Time do we turn,

Our Light held inward,

To Shine outward,

Warming others,

To Burn too…

45. The Noise

I don’t want to hear the Noise.

I see the Fire light on my Body,

And I see the light coming out, too,

But you can’t hear the light from there,

Like from the fireplace crackling.

You can’t hear the light from there,

But you can hear the Noise in your head,

But I don’t want to hear Doubt,

Or Indecision,

Or Fear,

Or Paranoia.

I only want to hear what I can be.

I don’t want to hear the Noise,

Keeping me up at night,

Waking me from sweet sleep.

And when my sleep is again right,

I will be right,

And for you to see, here I too write.

44. The Lady

It was my baby,

And she grew up into a Lady,

But maybe,

That Lady was dark and shady…

And for eighteen years,

All I had was praise for her from peers,

But now I, with beers and not tears,

See the Lady, dark and shady, robbing me of my Years…

And I could stay with her,

Knowing Life for another eighteen Years grey whirr,

Or cast off the dark and shady Lady so much like a bur,

And find a new Lady, whom to nurture and my heart she to stir.

43. The Moments

Seeing the wind flowing,

Looking out the window,

In the conifers, I knowing…

Like during last September,

Or in other quiet moments multitude.

Reflected today & tomorrow will remember…

This, or that: what did it all mean?

Nothing. I exist. Beautiful. And that is all.

And the moments flow past living and pristine.

And like Nabokov,

Plainly do I perceive,

The finite moments that quietly murmur like a dove.

42. Ronald Duane Peed

Through a dirty tinged glass,

Do I look’th upon what hath cometh to pass,

And my Heart to break’th as surely before a lass…

Know that in Life, Thee were a tolling bell.

Know that in Death, Thee by Science, of barbarian genetic European spell.

Comfort Thyself if in Heaven, or elsewhere in druidic drunken spell;

Pray with the Angels or gods I to join Thee with my skull…

If Thee, however, be in Hell where the daemons dwell,

Count a failed Adventure later I to join Thee, with Axe shortly after fell…

Chapter II     An allegory of the Sky, Earth & other things… Chicken-Scratched September 2007.

When the clouds drop down rain upon the parched ground; the Earth doesn’t know the pain of the storm itself because it is selfish…

It can not hear the rumblings within. 

It can not see the lightening.

It can not know that the rain drops are the tears of the Sky.

It knows only a crazed need: hungrily, greedily taking in that which it needs to send up, out new life. It yearns to grow. It conceives to evolve. It does not like its drab appearance; the Earth prefers the vibrant, raucous color of pink-cheeked Life. A simple hope: a dream of lush, green trees and birds, of flowers and bees all under a cheerful yellow sun. It doesn’t know that the rain pelting it is not cause for joy.

It doesn’t know that which gives it hope of Life, are but the tears of the Sky…

When its thirst is at its highest, when it has turned to opened badlands; it knows only of want.

It doesn’t think to touch the Sky where they meet in alpine meadows and rocky, snow covered crags to caress it, stroke it, console it, befriend it in it’s time of wind-swept need…

The Earth thinks of its wounds first; it only knows its pain…

And so it comes to regret its wants which drive it. It looks shamefacedly inwardly for it is a kind of partner with Blue-Eyed Sky that is taking and not giving…

Chapter III     A Satirical Love Letter. Chicken-Scratched Late-August 2007.

When one has been in a desert as long as I and to come upon an oasis, nay, a land of the verdant green of life found in thy honeyed words: I to acknowledge my souls isolation; it’s starving, pitiful condition and a tear forms in my eye…

Bow of life strung, arrow falling short; that tear, that single jewel of my sorrow rolls and falls alone to the desert floor…

I lay myself down in thy deep, cool grasses that enfold me as if your hand cradled my malnourished soul itself. Your shade trees, full of gentle sway, fruit and song of bird, protect me and nourish me from the depredations of the cruel sun I have known so long in my wanderings.

The tide to turn, my spirit returning… and wondering, I, “Who art thou?”

“Are thee lovely Calypso?”

“Are thee fearsome Athena?”

I think thee all those and more…

Behold! Before me in thy nimbus of satire, voice of phonic beauty & lovely feminine form, eyes of piercing sky to melt the heart of Men, stands:

Fearsome Slayer of endless waves of slavering, mindless subhuman minions from the Maw of Call Center Hell itself: the Lovely, Angelic Atlanta, Queen of the Wordsmiths…

And my cup to fill with a Champagne of Happiness, my soul’s yearning quenched…