The Winter of His Discontent

Drinking coffee is short of pain
Unless the student is dreaming of mutiny
Stuck-up and snooty; spiteful and vain
Noblemen and servant; alas, under our scrutiny

The coach is passing
- The culprit blubbered and whined
The disciple sprang open
-The assassin is kneeling; helpless and blind

The gun was held by a nervous, tiny hand
-The killer shed many tears, be-mourning his land
-A shot, a noise
the fragile sissy finally falls
-A sob and a howl,
in unity, brotherhood crawls

Agents of empire, chasing the truth
Their swords and guns, hidden as sleuth
Vestiges of horses, leaving pain and despair
Humanity?
The king in the story did not really care

Swindles of constraint
Resistance – elapsed!
A tempest as brute as unforgiving
seeding new men

Who isn’t misled?

living pestilence
feudal castration
fortified villages
a vain fabrication

The sinuous army advances through landscapes
Of poverty and destitution
Scrunching and squashing
Seeking retribution
For the bequeathed crown
Darkly gleaming chariots with no brakes

The last one standing is a mischievous loner
whose self-neglect and feverish will
destroyed in rage his heavenly owner
saved grace, despite sheer maenadic thrill

too late it was though; alone he surrendered
aristocracy blossomed, the flowers decayed

in a prison he spent days of dementia
until a priest came to him and declared:
“Dazzled cuckoo, you just wait for a death’s man!”
and so it happened…revenge of the laird!

Disguised as fellow sinner, in tattered old cloth
she came to him, consoling them both

The gift was conserved salacity
His teeth in the stockings, serving the plan
he finally erupted, torpid with alacrity
ceased to be a fighter
became a decomposed man

In the court of imposture
where Nausea is ruling
occupied by cringers and arcane plotters alike
Civilized hordes!
decency seldom is blooming
the dykes not staking the Reich

the monarch’s scribe declares victory
his sycophants’ cheers
equal a brawl
the king’s deepest pride; terror as remedy
does not foresee
his infinite fall

a final paradox though, in the mould of the converted
– the priest is speaking, alone and deserted

“Oh Brothers! How bleak is life?
The king has cake,
though where’s the bread?
I was mistaken, for after all this strife
I dare to say, death’s mask is white, not red”