Ides of March

Lines  that  Suck  the  Bitch’s  Tit

DIIS MANIBUS
The spells, the rites, the pomp, the victims fled,
The fanes all desert, and the lares dead.
Timothy Dwight

O vicious household gods of Rome
you Manes, Lares, Muses, Fates
who graced each crass patrician home,
whose reign this poem celebrates,

Allow me now, in retrospect
to excavate, then analyze.
Depravity with cause, connect;
depriving you of alibis.

Relax your stiff noetic poise
as my plebeian pen records
through lyrical poetic noise
the crown imperial crime awards.

My lines, like foundlings, long to suck
a mother’s milk in measured draft
and dredge some gold from Tiber’s muck;
Dear Lord: illuminate my craft.

ROMULUS, let that wolf-tit go
and REMUS too—unlatch that breast . . .
milk of Etruscan madness, flow,
with empire’s crimes forthwith confessed.

We will not blame your leaden wares
nor ergot mold in rancid bread
for genocidal state affairs,
brutality, and martyred dead.

The Circus, leering, restless, loud,
cheers gladiatorial excess.
The haunted forum’s phantom-crowd
awaits the tyrant’s next address.

He speaks. The wind blows through the arches
stirring up the roadside litter.
Trumpets blare. The legion marches.
Empire’s aftertaste is bitter.

You were Antichrist. That is all.
We cannot dignify your past
or glorify from whence you fall
or praise the mold from which you’re cast.

Christ traveled far from Galilee;
came, saw, conquered—and on it goes.
Our king shall reign eternally;
that she-wolf’s milk no longer flows.

 

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Christ Massed

I haven’t written a Christmas poem since Saturnalia 2014.

This one came to me over the last month.
Don’t get me wrong—I love Christmastime . . .
but there is something OFF with Xmas in Ameri©a™ these days

Children drugged with truthless tales . . .
Unwise men embrace their treasure;
Algorithms urge the sales
In malls devoid of merry measure.

Plastic sparkles in the air;
Automotive ads turn festive . . .
Forced good nature everywhere
Makes the shopping crowds grow restive.

Corporate greed spins altruistic
Hyping goods, suppressing Christ.
Our Yuletide is their big statistic
Oversold and underpriced.

Secular beribboned fluff:
Peace, Goodwill . . .  but don’t say God !
And heaven knows you’ve had enough;
Just download the app—acquire the mod.

Coca-Colaed, Disneyfied
You’re wrapping paper for their fire;
Eggnogged, Santa-ed, thrown aside
While Babel’s flames roar ever higher.

The godlessness shines right on through
Where Christmas lyrics die, unheard.
The Yule-log and the sparks that flew
Expire in embers long unstirred.

The old usurper carting toys
And Chinese knock-offs in his sled
Sets off a lot of empty noise:
Insanity in green and red.

The lurker leers and hauls his bag
(jolly antichrist distraction)
While flying Bishop Nicholas’ flag:
A winter psi-ops covert action.

Only message left: go drink!
And may your cup o’erflow with cheer
Before you risk to start to think
Yourself and God right out of here.

Hallmark haloes, bygone kitsch
enwreaths the memory of the years,
Kindling maudlin sadness which
wells up in melancholy tears

For Christian culture (rest in peace)
Long-corrupted by dollar signs;
For fa la la and fattened geese
And holly midst the ivy vines;

For Dickens’ gospel of the season
Anglican angelic ghosts
Pushing us beyond unreason
Toward the future’s spectral hosts;

For folklore now reduced to ash
Commercial blow-outs, dirty snow;
For Saturnalian urge to smash
the store-front windows where they show;

For useless manger figurines
Passed down from some more faithful time;
For hallowed and nostalgic scenes
No longer worth a Roman dime.

 

 

 

Reset to Eden

Each day reminds me that I am depraved

fixated, titillated still with sin

and thinking I’m smart, I’ve ranted and raved

only to wake up again in this skin

wondering if I am actually saved.

Behold the deep cesspool I find within:

unhallowed Self, to whom I am enslaved,

doomed to start over every day.  Begin

again Lord Christ, that sanctifying work

you promised to accomplish through your Word.

Kill the vipers that in our garden lurk;

tell of your blood and all that it conferred.

Explain—as on the road to Emmaus;

or dull mortality may dismay us.

Euro-globalists
insanely bent on multi-
cultural suicide

 

The Anonymous Vicar

https://i0.wp.com/www.photographers-resource.co.uk/images/A_heritage/hillside/545px-UK_Arms_1714_svg.png

An all time favorite poem.

       How and why do I love The Vicar of Bray?   Let me count the ways.
First, we have that intriguing author. No mythic background, no poetic baggage associated with the name: Anonymous.  The interest and the significance must come purely through the reading and the understanding of it. This brings us to the actual content of the poem, its message. The Vicar only pays out his jackpot to Anglophiles who know something about England’s political and ecclesiastical history. It is not for everyone; I can’t imagine a non-Anglophile getting much out of this poem. But the catalyst for me (ha ha) is the absurd image of the poor feline being basted in an oven. I don’t know if it was a popular idiom of the day, but I found it arresting and absurdly hilarious all at once. And of course there is the rollicking and regular rhythm, complemented by the recurring refrain. Was it a song originally rather than mere verse ? Probably.

There is much to be gleaned in the poetic fields of context, but I loved this poem even before the internet. George Orwell knew the Vicar too !

 

The Vicar of Bray

Anonymous  (1730s ?)

In good King Charles’s golden days,
When Loyalty no harm meant;
A Furious High-Church man I was,
And so I gain’d Preferment.
Unto my Flock I daily Preached,
Kings are by God appointed,
And Damn’d are those who dare resist,
Or touch the Lord’s Anointed.

And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my Dying Day, Sir.
That whatsoever King may reign,
I shall be Vicar of Bray, Sir!

When Royal James possessed the crown,
And popery grew in fashion;
The Penal Law I hooted down,
And read the Declaration:
The Church of Rome I found would fit
Full well my Constitution,
And I had been a Jesuit,
But for the Revolution.

  And this is Law, &c.

When William our Deliverer came,Cat in Pan
To heal the Nation’s Grievance,
I turned the Cat in Pan again,
And swore to him Allegiance:
Old Principles I did revoke,
Set conscience at a distance,
Passive Obedience is a Joke,
A Jest is non-resistance.

  And this is Law, &c.

When Royal Ann became our Queen,
Then Church of England’s Glory,
Another face of things was seen,
And I became a Tory:
Occasional Conformists base
I Damn’d, and Moderation,
And thought the Church in danger was,
From such Prevarication.

  And this is Law, &c.

 When George in Pudding time came o’er,
And Moderate Men looked big, Sir,
My Principles I changed once more,
And so became a Whig, Sir.
And thus Preferment I procured,
From our Faith’s great Defender,
And almost every day abjur’d
The Pope, and the Pretender.

  And this is Law, &c.

 The Illustrious House of Hanover,
And Protestant succession,
To these I lustily will swear,
Whilst they can keep possession:
For in my Faith, and Loyalty,
I never once will falter,
But George, my lawful king shall be,
Except the Times should alter.

  And this is Law, &c.