They had it by the throat; it croaked a little
advertising jingle, then expired
into unceasing light and heat of battle,
a bitch of a surprise, that briskly flared
then turned on its devices and reviewed
its options with a snickering disdain
as if out of that throat a voice had blared,
long past, that there was everything to gain -
and that was bad, a melter-down of mettle
that fuzzed the meter, turned the water weird,
declared itself a belter but was brittle
(if not as fettlesome as we had feared).
We flopped down on the deck, the fish we'd speared
still flapping, a wet universe of pain,
as over the horizon it appeared
again that there was everything to gain
by camouflage of selves among the cattle,
by persiflage among the newly-squired;
by marriage, though we had no wish to settle
into squaredom and our hearts were coolly fired
by slow-combusting sacrilege. We fared
no better in that universe of strain
than had our ancestors, who yet inferred,
despite all, that they'd everything to gain.
A creeping pox on all whom kings have sired
is heritance, the weevil in the grain
yet multiplying, as his sire required,
avowing that there was everything to gain.
---
Tim Thornton posted one of these on Facebook, and various people said
they'd have a go, so I joined in. It's silly (I just went for it, without
thinking particularly hard about what I was saying or why), but there are
some lines I like a lot.
D
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