The time is out of joint.
The rhyme ‘s twists and turns
Forebode the rapture.
Poor Hamlet, he was
a fellow of infinite jest...
The old jingle goes round and round like the recycled armature:
Liberty as the cause of universal misery.
The Leviathan yields not only flesh, but exquisite furs
That can be confused with Euclidean theorems.
The end is nigh! The monster’s tentacles cover its scaly bra.
There’ll be no H-bomb blasts, no belated sobs, only
A sudden kick up the arse, a moment of clarity:
You’ll see the world’s deepest mysteries,
Like Bluebeard’s wife inspecting his secret cabinet:
The writing on the wall reading 42.
Bloodied corpses are piled everywhere.
They disagreed that 42 was the answer.
A discussion club for forest shrub,
Trees, ferns, and cattails invited, too:
Item number one was, how not to screw up,
Item number two... There was no item No. 2.
Then heavenly fire destroyed them all,
‘Twas forest, now it’s pasture and wheat.
They’ve put up the Moon for the wolves to howl,
And proclaimed one’s neighbor a twit.
Homo homini lupus est, they said. They said, we need
The Beast of the Sea to sail
On and onwards, heeding his creed, -
All aboard the whale!
It’s too late to take my pill,
Can’t afford my own will,
I have one remaining question,
Whose’s my master and my eel?
He’s a rookie, short on guile,
Gushing blood and retching bile.
As we dive, for our merit
Lobsters bite us with a smile.
His descent is swift and steep,
Lions puking with the sheep,
And (thus spake Zarathustra)
There’ll be bodies in the deep.