The Contradictite

A child in Rome is like an ostrich in parliament, The house of lords and the house of god. Understanding, with an eye larger than a brain, The child, cooked medium well has a texture like beef. The emperor gazes at the feathered boy; The lords feast on Ambrosia, Boiled, and covered in cheese. They sip tea while debating, As the right and left squabble for squab. He is an ostrich, Hatched from an egg the size of a human head. Worshipped in the temple As a Deus Ex Ovum. Only in Latin, For the child was in Rome, Disrupting the proceedings. The representation for the queen. The child squawked and fluttered about, Causing a ruckus among the lords. Causing a ruckus among the gods. Jupiter restrains Mars from killing the boy. He is just a figurehead, holding back the true power. Venus and Pluto laugh together at the child’s innocence, Lust and death far from the boy. Mercury sees something, and then runs off quickly, The courier gone to seek out a listener. The templ...

[Author's Note: This is a tripartite triolet based on the painting Peasant Wedding  by Peter Bruegel the Elder. It's about the dog on the right side of the painting.] At the wedding, the dog sits under the tables, Hungry and excited and looking for attention It is the member of a popular fable: “At the wedding, the dog sits under the table, Always ready, always able, Awaiting a bit of crust’s descension. At the wedding, the dog sits under the table, Hungry and excited and looking for attention.” There it sits, growling, whining, Wishing solely to be fed. Like a dog, it’s constantly pining, There it sits, growling, whining, Beady dog eyes always shining, Up until it’s dead. There it sits, growling, whining, Wishing solely to be fed. That it likes people, to lick their hands, To sniff them, to know them Shows that from many, it demands That it likes people, to lick their hands, Or lay about in the floor’s sands, To haw or to hem That it likes people, ...

[Author's Note: This is a poem about a fictional location, which was the subject of an abandoned story. I have recycled some elements from that unpublished story and used them in different stories (which I'll publish here). The poem is intentionally strange.] There is a landmass that is orthogonal to reason. It exists between the aether and phlogiston. To get there, one must have been there before. To return home, one must have never left. The land is called Dimpus by none, But is loved just as much. The creatures who do not go are Humans, Clinkebeans and Koepans, Who would instantly fall apart due to Interdimensional instability. They are the only three three-dimensional sentient beings. Common denizens of the land called Dimpus by none Have six 14.721-dimensional parents Which all love their children equally as much With the exception of the anti-lunreght, Who is incapable of love. The Jesuits are an organization holding Beliefs handed down to them by Thos...

[Author's Note: This was a poem I wrote for a creative writing course in college. It is inspired, thematically, by Lewis Carroll's The Hunting of the Snark .] There was a time I thought to hunt a boojum, It having caused my friends to disappear, Die, have inverted colors. We asked Alice, anonymously, to lead us To this land of wonder that contains the boojum And other frabjuous things. Alice grabbed a darner, ready to impale. I sharpened and honed my blade, a vorpal affair, As I honed and sharpened my skills, running through the forest, Slaying that which fell into my path. Packing provisions, we found a flat-tailed accomplice Who was ready to leave the dam, giving nary a damn To his home, ready to help me gain my revenge. Grabbed he his cleaver and told me thus: “Beware the snark, my friend, His guise deceits, his snorm fossy. I shall snicker him in the end, with my cleaver, frubulent and gossy.” We went there thus from his house on the river And found the...

[Author's Note: I originally published this story in April of 2004 on my LiveJournal literary community, indiefiction. It is the result of a formal bet I had made with a friend at college, where I agreed, were I to lose my end of the bargain, to write a short story featuring the struggle and format of his choice. He picked an Mock Epic of Man vs. Cantaloupe. The wager was whether I could reasonably predict which shirt my roommate would wear a few days in advance. Based on his past t-shirt selection habits, I thought I had his code broken; however, on the day in question, I was sad to discover that chaos intervened. He was not wearing the predicted t-shirt. Thus, the following poem.] The maiden was faire as she stood sidelong; Her man fronted by a fierce vinèd fruit. He drew his sword, fronting his oppugnant, Ready to avast the fierce muskmelon. The eye of the ballèd melon stared quick. Licking the blade of Artanamater, His faitheful sword and steed from ages yore, Our her...