Tres parodias: Shelley, Thomas, Twain.

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-button,

and hair.

—

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night – Dylan Thomas

Rave

   

To Dylan, 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.

—

Concerning Tobacco – Mark Twain

Concerning Tobacco

   

To young Mark. Always with one hand ocuppied. 

Children of twenty-eight

try to tell me what is a good cigar and what isn’t.

Me, who never learned to smoke, but always smoked;

me, who came into the world asking for a light.

—

Me, who since learning to walk

never stumbled.

Me, who never ran after a bus

but always arrived everywhere on time.

—

Me, who when asked by a waitress

about the kind of beer I would prefer—

sweet, sour, toasted, or fruity—always responded:

cold.

—

Me, who began going out

when I was seven.

Me, who has lived four hundred and fifty-six weekends

without throwing up once.

—

Me, who stole my parents’ condoms

right before my last brother was conceived.

Me, who came from the womb dancing

and when the nurses left the room, lit a ciggy.

—