Those spies with their black boxes.
They don't belong here.
Monday, September 19, 2016
From the Fat to the Fire
I can't comprehend how you could have been so careless with our romance
To throw it away on the first guy you see. Why, you hardly gave us a chance!
I thought we were cooking and you seemed so pleased but another has caught your desire
Which demonstrates clearly our sizzling affair has now gone from the fat to the fire.
If you've found what you wanted in somebody else then there surely is no point in trying
To convince you to stay. I'd be wasting my time, and I'm hurt, but you won't catch me crying.
So run to his arms or go jump in his bed. Pretty soon, I suspect, you will tire
Of your gentleman friend, and this new fling you'll end, tossing him from the fat to the fire.
To throw it away on the first guy you see. Why, you hardly gave us a chance!
I thought we were cooking and you seemed so pleased but another has caught your desire
Which demonstrates clearly our sizzling affair has now gone from the fat to the fire.
If you've found what you wanted in somebody else then there surely is no point in trying
To convince you to stay. I'd be wasting my time, and I'm hurt, but you won't catch me crying.
So run to his arms or go jump in his bed. Pretty soon, I suspect, you will tire
Of your gentleman friend, and this new fling you'll end, tossing him from the fat to the fire.
Beside the Fire
Beside the fire we reminisce
Of our first date and our first kiss
Which ultimately led to this
Epitome of wedded bliss.
Beside the fire we thank the Lord
Our prayers for love were not ignored.
We go to bed each night assured
We have received life's best reward.
Beside the fire we entertain
Indulgences we must restrain
'Til we're alone. Then passions reign
And fierce desires we can unchain.
Beside the fire, as man and wife
We count the blessings of our life.
So many gifts, such little strife.
With Heaven's Grace the world is rife.
Of our first date and our first kiss
Which ultimately led to this
Epitome of wedded bliss.
Beside the fire we thank the Lord
Our prayers for love were not ignored.
We go to bed each night assured
We have received life's best reward.
Beside the fire we entertain
Indulgences we must restrain
'Til we're alone. Then passions reign
And fierce desires we can unchain.
Beside the fire, as man and wife
We count the blessings of our life.
So many gifts, such little strife.
With Heaven's Grace the world is rife.
An Ice Cold Soul
My mistress has an ice cold soul
And has me under her control.
Although I love her none the less
Her cruelty brings me much distress.
Her beauty is an attribute
That none who meet her can dispute.
But she has other potent tools
For dominating fawning fools.
I never thought that she was kind
Which strangely, made me more inclined
To seek her favors and romance
Like countless other sycophants.
She never stoops to crass or crude.
Is always quite politely rude.
Yet with unquestionable ease
Can bring opponents to their knees.
With pleasure she dispenses spurn.
My love for her she won't return.
Quite callously my heart she stole.
My mistress has an ice cold soul.
And has me under her control.
Although I love her none the less
Her cruelty brings me much distress.
Her beauty is an attribute
That none who meet her can dispute.
But she has other potent tools
For dominating fawning fools.
I never thought that she was kind
Which strangely, made me more inclined
To seek her favors and romance
Like countless other sycophants.
She never stoops to crass or crude.
Is always quite politely rude.
Yet with unquestionable ease
Can bring opponents to their knees.
With pleasure she dispenses spurn.
My love for her she won't return.
Quite callously my heart she stole.
My mistress has an ice cold soul.
Rasputin's Farewell
So finally they’ve struck me down
And rushed headlong to ring the knell
Proclaiming in their wicked mirth
That I at last have gone to hell.
One winter night a faint light streaked
Across the bleak Siberian sky
Beyond the Urals to the east
Across the southern steppes came I.
Yea those there were who called me Christ
Horse thief, healer, devil man
Betrayed by him I once called friend
Who lunged, then like a coward ran.
Adrift upon a sea of blood
Which has engulfed the entire realm
Now Bolsheviks and Cossacks clash
With thieves and cutthroats at the helm.
So let them dance upon my grave
And wallow in their filthy glee
It is Grigori who at last
Shall laugh for all eternity.
And rushed headlong to ring the knell
Proclaiming in their wicked mirth
That I at last have gone to hell.
One winter night a faint light streaked
Across the bleak Siberian sky
Beyond the Urals to the east
Across the southern steppes came I.
Yea those there were who called me Christ
Horse thief, healer, devil man
Betrayed by him I once called friend
Who lunged, then like a coward ran.
Adrift upon a sea of blood
Which has engulfed the entire realm
Now Bolsheviks and Cossacks clash
With thieves and cutthroats at the helm.
So let them dance upon my grave
And wallow in their filthy glee
It is Grigori who at last
Shall laugh for all eternity.
Wednesday, September 14, 2016
Cheating the Worms
Even rats with their prodigious, persistent fangs would be hard-pressed to penetrate
Two inches of concrete, reinforced with stubborn iron mesh.
And the occasional auspicious crack caused by the careless backhoe
Only leads to further disappointment: a shell of galvanized steel.
But the unkindest cut of all, if we should by some miracle
Gain ingress to that which is rightfully ours
Pungent, poisonous preservatives lurking in those inert veins
Like a rusty razorblade embedded in a caramel-coated apple.
Why do you hate us so much?
Air-tight urns with ashes interred
Present to the subterranean scavengers
Still another conundrum.
If the contents are so precious, why not keep them on your mantels beside faded photographs?
Why burn them at all?
Why dress them in their finest, style their hair and smear them with make-up
Then lock them away forever in stifling, impregnable sepulchres?
Stuff them, put them on display in your homes
Prop them up at the table, reading the paper
Or lay them out in their favorite recliners
Their lifeless fingers locked around the remote control.
Then you can truly say, “He looks so natural.”
Then you can truly say, “She looks so peaceful.”
Do this if you would cheat death.
Do this if you would cheat us.
© August 30, 2005 by Allan M. Heller
Two inches of concrete, reinforced with stubborn iron mesh.
And the occasional auspicious crack caused by the careless backhoe
Only leads to further disappointment: a shell of galvanized steel.
But the unkindest cut of all, if we should by some miracle
Gain ingress to that which is rightfully ours
Pungent, poisonous preservatives lurking in those inert veins
Like a rusty razorblade embedded in a caramel-coated apple.
Why do you hate us so much?
Air-tight urns with ashes interred
Present to the subterranean scavengers
Still another conundrum.
If the contents are so precious, why not keep them on your mantels beside faded photographs?
Why burn them at all?
Why dress them in their finest, style their hair and smear them with make-up
Then lock them away forever in stifling, impregnable sepulchres?
Stuff them, put them on display in your homes
Prop them up at the table, reading the paper
Or lay them out in their favorite recliners
Their lifeless fingers locked around the remote control.
Then you can truly say, “He looks so natural.”
Then you can truly say, “She looks so peaceful.”
Do this if you would cheat death.
Do this if you would cheat us.
© August 30, 2005 by Allan M. Heller
You say that you are not afraid
You say that you are not afraid to face the final call?
Because you are superior to all us “infidels”
Who undulate like ragged rowboats in the ocean’s swells
Engulfed at last by angry seas that form a swirling pall.
Here’s my take:
God forsake?
Your mistake.
Suppose the bridge of stone and steel that you will walk across
Is really made of rotting wood and decomposing rope.
So if the boards beneath your feet give way, I only hope
Your pompous days of re-born faith were not a total loss.
Caustic wit?
Live with it.
Hypocrite.
On angel’s wings, you claim, you’ll soar to rendez-vous with God
While all the rest of us descend to well-deserved perdition
So confident you are your sins will all receive remission.
Perhaps your wings are made of wax. Now wouldn’t that be odd?
Apostate?
I debate.
Just you wait.
© August 27, 2005 by Allan M. Heller
Because you are superior to all us “infidels”
Who undulate like ragged rowboats in the ocean’s swells
Engulfed at last by angry seas that form a swirling pall.
Here’s my take:
God forsake?
Your mistake.
Suppose the bridge of stone and steel that you will walk across
Is really made of rotting wood and decomposing rope.
So if the boards beneath your feet give way, I only hope
Your pompous days of re-born faith were not a total loss.
Caustic wit?
Live with it.
Hypocrite.
On angel’s wings, you claim, you’ll soar to rendez-vous with God
While all the rest of us descend to well-deserved perdition
So confident you are your sins will all receive remission.
Perhaps your wings are made of wax. Now wouldn’t that be odd?
Apostate?
I debate.
Just you wait.
© August 27, 2005 by Allan M. Heller
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