In collaboration with the brilliance, genius, and humor of Nepenthes. . . without whom this would have been flushed out of existence.


Owed to Porcelain

Thou dwell'sts in famous castles,
cast on coats of arms of yore
thy fountains splashing, kissing all
who pass from throne to thee and more.

Thou art imagination's
Sentry, guarding all her myths,
Her passions, and her gifts.
I bow to thee in p-p-p- praise.

Thou sit'st beside Commodus
thy realm beneath all crimson robes
thy chant, recited, royal flush,
no call, no stay, a regal raise.

But, dids't thou find Persephone?
Whil'st sitting on her throne, she moaned;
For, Hell is not a friendly place,
Not e'en for such as she. Oh, no.

But, lo, Dis Pater as Ha deez is known
calls all about for wife Persephone
for she be not upon her throne
nor will she answer her tele pho nee.

Telefoamed-knee, perfectly
Methinks she be enthroned
Upon burlesque, making world
Go 'round, money makes her stoned.

Perhaps she found a newer universe
far better than here in Aidoneus
and darker Pluto may be far worse
than settling for. . . uh, Uranus.

Jupiter paused, and cast a quick glance
Around Mars and a moon or a hundred or so.
What was that? A sound from the wood dance
Allowed a silent whisper from (fill in the blank)

Though Pluto may be on her mind,
the underworld is still the silent realm
where Cerberus guards both the thrones
for her and hubby standing by at the helm.

And, yet, a capsule, et cetera, begets
A mount of accents arguing around a pot.







Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 497 times
Written on 2007-03-08 at 00:44

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