Flammeus Gladius

Carmina et Verba pro Discipulis Meis

Tag: Italian sonnet

Wilhelmina Wilson

Wilhelmina Wilson

Like William Wilson, our lad had a foe.
His hostile doppelganger drove him mad
With hatred of himself. Yes, it was sad
To see that both of them just had to know:
Self is the dam that interrupts the flow;
Self is the fact of which self can’t be glad;
Self is the frowning and demanding dad;
Self is the tunnel down which self must go.
But then our hero’s nasty opposite
Thought of a way to make the conflict cease:
Transitioning from mirror-image twit
Into a gorgeous babe, Ligeia’s niece!
May I as reader here pick just one nit?
More horrible than war is such a peace.

–Tom Riley

Nimrod’s Tower

Nimrod’s Tower

They strive to show how much they love the pope—
This Commie pope, whose errors multiply
Faster than any laboratory fly.
In his escape from reason, they find hope—
And with his babbling they are proud to cope.
Does Nimrod’s tower rise indeed? How high?
Curial pederasts must now deny
This project of the mouthy papal dope.
Confusion is, of course, on all their tongues.
They press ahead, which means they fall behind.
They mean to drag their asses up firm rungs
But find the promised ladder realigned.
The virus fills their souls, not just their lungs.
I’m glad their pontiff doesn’t have a mind.

–Tom Riley

See the source image

Revenge of the Nerd

Revenge of the Nerd

How can this sissy general at last
Be victor in a battle fiercely fought?
True victory, of course, cannot be bought.
Achilles sprints. Thersites, far outclassed,
Would love to see the godlike hero passed,
Would love to see his greatness brought to naught.
But such an outcome, furiously sought,
Is never given to the candy-assed.
The only contest possible is bitching—
But even there there’s way too much to dread.
The hero might undo some bio-stitching
And paint the field with hemoglobin red!
That’s why the current option’s so bewitching:
Ty Seidule will bitch against the dead!

–Tom Riley

See the source image

Hidden Valley

Hidden Valley

Indeed, I thought I stumbled there by chance—
Into that hidden valley. Do you claim
Knowledge, sir, of the place or of the name?
Then I assume a plaintive, humble stance.
Help me to understand how winds advance
There as in no place else, how wings go lame
Overhead, how perception is a game
Minds cannot win, how legless beings dance!
I thought it was a crippled crow that croaked
To me: “You’ll comprehend, when you are wise,
That hard necessity serenely joked,
Impersonating chance amid your cries.
Rains of malevolence have left you soaked!”
But that crow stared at me with silver eyes.

–Tom Riley

See the source image

In Caelo Regnat

In Caelo Regnat

 

What reigns in Heaven can’t be written down.
No text can bind that all-pervasive fire.
For what’s above some feel a fierce desire—
But composition, lad, makes you a clown
Wearing an idiotic parchment crown.
If you would hear the Gods’ transcendent choir,
From literary efforts please retire!
In alphabetic oceans cease to drown!
Cease to indulge your yen for definition:
What can be put in writing shouldn’t be
If actual enlightenment’s your mission.
Don’t dare encumber immortality!
Be wordless in your pertinent contrition!
Sign here, lad, if at long last you agree!

 

–Tom Riley

Dream of a Counter-Rush

Dream of a Counter-Rush

 

They tried to push a leftist Rush for years.
They propped up every kind of idiot
They could imagine. Didn’t help one bit:
All efforts led to failure – and to tears.
In calculating skulls, the latest gears
Were turning, lubed with thick progressive spit.
The end result was always simply shit.
Impotently, the Left shook plastic spears.
That’s why they had to get their insults in
When cancer slammed the door on Rush’s reign.
Awash in imbecility and sin,
In agony from self-inflicted pain,
They knew Rush played a game they couldn’t win—
Wherever he might tie one-half his brain.

 

–Tom Riley

 

See the source image

Look on the Bright Side

Look on the Bright Side

 

The puppet president of Chairman Xi
Is now in place, so history advances.
Of course, America must take its chances.
This age-encumbered mediocrity
Who wets his nether garments frequently
Has long adopted idiotic stances.
Incapable of clever verbal dances,
He stumbles, stalls, and babbles ceaselessly.
Don’t worry, though – for Chairman Xi is boss.
Derelict Joe just carries out his orders.
Though Joe’s ascendancy is clearly loss,
A deep abasement of his current quarters,
Xi’s wisdom offers noodles, rice, and sauce
From far beyond our now-dissolving borders.

 

–Tom Riley

 

Sunnier Version

Sunnier Version

 

“Shit, this is just a slightly sunnier version of Stoker’s Dracula, with Frodo playing Jonathan Harker, Gandalf playing Abraham Van Helsing, and Sauron playing the Count himself.”

 

Stephen King – wizard, yes, and idiot—
Tells us that Tolkien’s masterpiece is “sunny.”
He’s right – if bile, once spread on toast, is honey.
He’s right – if in our sphere just rulers sit.
It’s true that skies in Middle-Earth are lit
By a bright sun. Oh, look: there goes a bunny!
It’s true that hobbits can be cute and funny.
It’s also true that they display true grit.
One of them truly needs it: that’s the one
Who, with his squire, while sun and moon are wheeling,
Enters the Dark Lord’s realm. It isn’t fun,
Whatever Stephen King may find appealing.
In the end, when the sacrifice is done,
All he can hope for is some distant healing.

 

–Tom Riley

Variety of Responses

A Variety of Responses

 

Some pissant at the National Review
Offers at last his lofty explanation
Of Donald Trump to those of humbler station.
Yes: that means me – and also, maybe, you.
What on earth can a MAGA moron do
But nod his head when such a dissertation
Is bodied forth in such a publication?
The options, we have long been told, are few.
Still, I can think of some. This whiskered bitch
Who lies prone to accept the fecal load
Of Democrats, whose lies obscenely itch
To suck till they expand and then explode,
Could be kicked till his slack limbs ceased to twitch
Or, both arms broken, drowned in a commode.

 

–Tom Riley

 

Humble Request

Humble Request

 

“The bitter sting of remorse will not cease to rankle in my wounds until death shall close them forever.”

 

Like Adam, I requested just one mate.
Frankenstein found that one request excessive.
His attitude was heartless and aggressive
At last. He started, labored to dilate,
Then cut the project off, inspired by hate.
Only of one small dream was I possessive.
My vengeance, I then swore, would be impressive.
Oh, he had opted for a dismal fate!
Creators have to answer, I maintain,
For what they have created. Mortified
By life infused in body and in brain
Fresh from his hands, he waited – then he cried.
I gave him boundless spiritual pain.
Did I regret my deeds? Ha! Walton lied!

 

–Tom Riley

 

Luke Goss in 2019 | Frankenstein, Frankenstein's monster ...