Weekly Sonnet 51

Yesterday (1564-1616)

So trivial and dim be the stage whence
spectacle trumps narrative and on speed:
we build good neighbors and a fence?
Iger’s Broadway grows cleanly like a weed.
O, what excuse will my poor Beast then find,
you say some Mary needs a line of blow?
Niel LaBute shows me the life of a mind;
That was a joke in case you did not know:

Ken Marino sprays Tom Lennon with mace;
his tears well, visage turned a darker shade,
Weigel, my Brecht roots do show just a trace;
a Tarzan play would make anyone jade;
while you try to extort my heart aglow,
Paul Thomas Anderson says: go, go, go.

Weekly Sonnet 50

Sed Qui Veritas Est?

Sen shoves the River Spirit’s little ball
down Kohaku’s throat. Wretch, purge: it’s bitter!
Crush, curse while blood is spattered on the wall.
Put index fingers and thumbs together.
I slice. Papa Benedictus dicit:

Pax Vobiscum. Sayeth Martin Luther:
Ich kann nicht anders. Religion, no cheat-
er of the Will, but in complacency,
it is fear, slander. It is a titter.

Ashitaka shoves his bowl in water,
breathes in, breathes out. Amas magna mater
ecclesiæ. (Ain’t tasseomancy.)
Mis’ess Gibbs says: O, full Earth, you’re a (too)
wonder for anyone to realize you!

Weekly Sonnet 49

I don’t believe you. Continue.

Sam Seder says, “This is a great day, folks!”
Hearts are near, but your lips are far away.
O, doors of breadth, seal with a righteous kiss!
We are the lanterns, and you were the light.

Red swirls on a flaming pole yield a plight;
Actions domestic, who are we to say?
Neatly beat my meringue away from yolks.
Don’t want to work in a building downtown.
Ipril day passes by to nary stop.

Flames always slash until in bile we drown.
And do your homework. Hand me. [cherry pop!]
I love country music, I’m selfish. Bliss!
These are the days that never rain, they pour.
Hillary is a total fucking whore.

Weekly Sonnet 48

TS, Eliot

O, take my art and fill me with cruelty!
Never be a command, always in threats.
Winters says, “Everybody pays taxes!”
At the violet hour, the human engine
Returns to sate its own selfish duty.
Dittoed. I’ve had ’em. Damn. Yada. Waxes
Lethargic che gli affina and whets
Your passions.—I have none. Know some evil

Mothers tell you everything is just dirt.
Oily, oily, oily, LORD, is my gin.
Rinse the ice, never shake: bruises. We fill
Our days with halo trouble. With a shirt
Stiff, do seppuku on adding machine,
Eat me in Saint Louis. Padding no sheen.