The pro-ballistic hand, a psychopomp
If only by degrees, now estimates
My pedigree, my mother's Eve-esque romp
Compared unfairly to my father straits,
His Dardenelles between antiquity
And kings being insufficient. I inquired,
O psychopomp, why do you weigh her? See
The scales: the Hellespont's too far retired,
Gallipoli bears down, and you resemble,
Accounting for your 1890s whiskers,
Sleek sideburns, Stetson, spurs, the subtle tremble
Of angels, nothing short of Tombstone. Riskers
And gamblers whisper when you pass from Troy
To stars beyond. Objective? Eden, boy.
2 comments:
Wrote this one after reading some more Gunslinger with a couple martinis in me. "Psychopomp" was in my brain after reaching Book IIII, so here it is. It's probably nonsense, but I was told to write bad sonnets rather than one at all, so here's to the clink of spurs chiming their way into the sunrise.
Wowers! At first it almost seemed like the hoped-for autobiographical sonnet, with only the problem of the personal pronoun "I" dancing in it when 'twas s'posed to be excluded.
Ah, you forever nearly entrance me with your choice vocabulary, impressive!
Is this a tantalizer to take a serious peek into your latest paperback?
Your closing is too delightful. La!
What a sonnet, beautifully laden and thought-provoking. Ah, excellent, despite the drawbacks of it lacking perfection according to you.
I like it very well.
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