Flammeus Gladius

Carmina et Verba pro Discipulis Meis

Month: October, 2017

Suety Snowflake

Suety Snowflake

 

Now Shea, that liar, claims to be “all hide 

And sinew.” Ha! There ain’t no sinew there—

Just lard that overflows without a care

For normal limits. Scientists have tried

To keep that mass of blubber quantified,

But Shea’s vast fat is science’s despair.

Pretty soon it’ll be most everywhere.

Look: crowds of extras flee on either side!

Oh, wait: am I engaging in abuse,

And is my lack of charity a sin?

Folks, it’s an image! I play fast and loose

With literal perceptions. Please begin

To understand! I mock Shea’s huge caboose

To criticize the flaccid soul within.

 

—Tom Riley

Night of the Inconvenient Flat

Night of the Inconvenient Flat

 

I’ve spotted a deflated tire.
The horror, people, is extreme!
Is transportation my desire?
I’ve spotted a deflated tire!
Axe murderers’ unreasoned ire
May now engulf me. Oh, bad dream:
I’ve spotted a deflated tire!
The horror, people, is extreme.

 

—Tom Riley

On the Exhalation of Truth

On the Exhalation of Truth

 

Most ghosts who breathe a word are telling lies.
The ones exhaling truth, though, you must fear.
Attend to our instruction and be wise!
Most ghosts who breathe a word are telling lies.
They’ll give up speaking after several tries.
But some ghosts are appallingly sincere.
Most ghosts who breathe a word are telling lies.
The ones exhaling truth, though, you must fear.

 

—Tom Riley

Little Monsters

Little Monsters

 

 

“Trick or treat!” So he gave them the knot
That had hanged a man. Also a shot
Of depraved witch’s brew.
Oh, a talking rat, too.
Little monsters sneered. “That all you got?”

 

 

—Tom Riley

Sucker

Sucker

 

How does Shea suck? It’s time to count the ways—
Or try.  The number may soar out of view.
He sucks because he never has a clue.
He sucks because he turns a lousy phrase
And thinks it’s really neat. He sucks for days
Then has his stomach pumped and sucks anew.
He sucks because the Zeitgeist sticks like glue
To his red beard throughout the tricks he plays.
And, most of all, he sucks for sinking low
In the pursuit of fraud, condemning “hate”
While he himself hates widely. Oh, his show
Convinces some! Perhaps they’ll share his fate.
Shea sucks — and, if what Dante wrote is so,
Shea will be sucking down in Circle Eight.

 

—Tom Riley

 

(This poem is of course a parody of Mrs. Browning’s famous Sonnet 43, which I abominate for its false rhymes, Victorian pieties, and ladylike prissiness. However, Mrs. Browning on her worst day, with a double concussion and having downed a fifth of Scotch, would still be a better writer than Shea on his best day, unpunched and sober.  The greatest injustice is that Shea remains unpunched.)

Not Again!

Not Again!

 

Oh, no! More klutzy sonnets from Mark Shea,
Full of false rhymes, with unrhymed lines thrown in
Whenever Shea, who’s really dumb as sin,
Can’t think from A to B and back to A!
Though proved incompetent, he types away.
When fourteen lines are done, he gives a grin
And tells himself he’s truly scored a win.
Ignorant fans applaud this slack display.
The Muses, though, are sickened by the smell
That rises from Shea’s verse, ineptly planned
And executed. Let him rot in Hell!
That’s what the Goddesses of Taste demand.
Shea doesn’t mind. In his world, all is well.
The Catholic jack-off jerk has tried his hand.

 

—Tom Riley

 

(Planned Parenthood ally and notorious glutton Mark Shea “tries his hand” again at the sonnet.)

Victor Victus

Victor Victus

 

“I’m assembled from various parts
In accordance with Victor’s dark arts.
As both beggar and chooser,
Victor ends up a loser.
I have wisdom, though he may have smarts.”

 

—Tom Riley

Fiend

The Fiend

 

They say that I was pieces sewn together.
They haven’t read the story carefully.
Victor did not concoct a patchwork me
Then cross his arms and wait for stormy weather.

Folks: I was eight feet tall! What cemetery
Would yield a seamstress pieces of that size?
Of Hollywood’s absurd, simplistic lies,
Let the discerning intellect be wary!

The process was supremely complicated.
The secret was a snake that ate its tail.
The product was a soul foredoomed to wail.
The victory of lightning was ill-fated.

The purpose was as cloudy as the means.
Aspiring deities require their fiends.

 

—Tom Riley

It’s Still Standing

It’s Still Standing

 

Breakfast today at Mickey D’s—
And there are firemen everywhere.
This early, I ain’t hard to please:
Breakfast today at Mickey D’s!
And everywhere, relaxed, at ease,
Heroes sip coffee. I don’t stare.
Breakfast today at Mickey D’s—
And there are firemen everywhere.

 

—Tom Riley

Abandoned House

The Abandoned House

 

The house was geometrically bizarre.
He snuck in anyhow — to prove how bold
He was. “My eyes see straight. My blood is cold.
My memory’s a file and not a scar!”
And, in that twisted place, did he get far!
On alternate directions he was sold.
He needed no familiar hand to hold.
He didn’t even need a guiding star.
“I’m A-okay,” he said. He wasn’t sick.
“I’m wide awake,” he said. He hadn’t dreamed.
Proud in those tunnels, nature’s heretic,
He boasted that he loved the way things seemed.
The tunnel opened up. Tock-tick. Tock-tick.
This was his own damn bedroom! And he screamed.

 

—Tom Riley