Flammeus Gladius

Carmina et Verba pro Discipulis Meis

Tag: Sonnets

Remarkable Journey of Frederick Wilson

The Remarkable Journey of Frederick Wilson

Frederick was abbreviated “Rick”
Instead of “Fred.” That truly was step one.
But, when in bathroom stall he first sucked dick,
Rick Wilson then advanced his course – a ton!
Yes, polishing another sort of gun
Affected him in ways that went real deep:
It was transformative, not simply fun.
Calling that thrill to mind, he couldn’t sleep.
Transition surgery is far from cheap.
The Lincoln Project, though, made money fast.
Rick sowed indeed, so now he gets to reap:
He’ll cease to be bald-headed, hairy-assed.
Instead, he’ll be George Conway’s little chickie.
Hey, world: be positive! Say hi to Rikki!

–Tom Riley

(This is the before picture. Rikki owns the copyright on all the after pictures.)

Amongst the Talkers

Amongst the Talkers

In endless words they wrap their emptiness,
Dreading the weight of silence and reflection.
Of all their sentences they make a mess—
But they are sure they’ve shaped some fine perfection.
They will not change their talkative direction,
No matter what the portents or the signs.
Their discourse stumbles, section after section,
Into a yawning space that’s not the mind’s.
Still, you must learn to read between the lines
That have not been and won’t be written down.
You must deduce intelligent designs
And not the comic actions of a clown.
Most of all, ears, you must not tune them out.
You must not risk their most insistent shout.

–Tom Riley

Killer Kumbaya

Killer Kumbaya

The neo-cons and liberals link arms
And sing that Darya’s murder was okay,
Whatever may have been her girlish charms.
Its wrath the Western order must display
In just this fashion. Brutal tricks we play
Here in the West, and brutal bombings too,
Authorized by the noble CIA,
Are, world not of our making, good for you!
They’re what enlightened pansies always do
When there’s a limit madmen can transgress.
So-called morality objects anew,
Withholding license. We go nonetheless
Confidently and righteously ahead.
Who cares if Russian females end up dead?

–Tom Riley

New Papal Pastoral Priority

A New Papal Pastoral Priority

Of course this pope would opt to meet with trannies.
Did he wear lipstick, though, for the occasion?
Granddads who have remade themselves as grannies
Would be impressed – and that’s called moral suasion.
Of papal duties there is no evasion—
And preaching in support of such perversion
Is, much like slapping every little Asian,
A vital duty. Cast no dark aspersion!
Trannies and queers aren’t making an incursion!
Instead, they’re joyfully exemplifying
A bright new age of unrestrained immersion
In cool baptismal waters. Pope ain’t lying!
This meeting was both glorious and nice.
On fashion, too, the pope got great advice.

–Tom Riley

Score!

Score!

Heroic Ukronazis scored a hit
By killing Comrade Dugin’s little girl.
Our NATO heroes, clearly, ordered it.
Into the cauldron, happily, we hurl
Women and children, emerald and pearl,
Whatever those who will not bow to us
Esteem and value. Rainbow Flags unfurl
To celebrate these victories – and thus
Our efforts are endorsed. Why make a fuss?
The unipolar world must be defended.
Dasha’s demise is far from ominous!
These bombs are what our paragons intended.
If Comrade Putin, though, responds in kind,
He’s brutal, evil, and of unsound mind.

–Tom Riley

Sorry Spectacle

Sorry Spectacle

Pope Francis has apologized again
For something that in truth did not occur.
Liars accuse the Church. He says amen,
Positioning himself as minister
To all the wounded souls that never were.
Along the way, he pisses on the dead.
Do those he seeks to satisfy then purr
A pleased response? No chance. They roar instead
And soft Bergoglio’s bogus act is fed
A whole new fuel. The cycle will proceed.
Repeating all the pointless things he’s said,
The pope will grasp the sucker’s role with greed
Because he loves to posture and to suck.
For Christians now alive, he’s rotten luck.

–Tom Riley

Apologia Francisci

Apologia Francisci

Has anybody noticed that the pope
Never apologizes for the things
That he himself has done? Instead, the scope
Of the repentance crap he always flings
Only embraces others. Priests and kings—
And prophets too (we shouldn’t leave them out)—
Are sinners. So the Holy Spirit sings—
And so the sensible should also shout.
Bergoglio, though? The subject is in doubt.
His predecessors were the naughty guys.
His own flaws he declines to talk about.
He is supremely good, supremely wise.
He points the finger freely, then proceeds:
“Hey, I condemn their thoughts, their words, their deeds!”

–Tom Riley

Apology

The Apology

Heap-big Bergoglio, him apologize.
Like Pocahontas Warren in her day,
Him Injun now, in ways of old earth wise.
Him got bright headdress ready for display.
In harmony with all, him never say
Anything in defense of priests who went
Before him. Them defunct – and need to pay.
Piss on them graves and him give fierce assent.
Church heap-big tent indeed – and in this tent
Is only space for POC and queer.
All others need to grovel and repent.
Bergoglio, him condemn year after year
All European Christians of the past.
Him preaching, though, forever candy-assed.

–Tom Riley

On the Degeneracy of Stephen Colbert

On the Degeneracy of Stephen Colbert

Colbert? Of course he’s always been a twerp.
His Trump Derangement Syndrome was extreme.
He didn’t merely suck: he had to slurp.
How eagerly he joined the sissy team!
Wet was the way this sad cunt had to dream
When planning his Obama interview.
Spontaneously also he would cream
When Buttigieg, unsubtle, gave the cue.
One thing, though, that I thought he’d never do—
This baby-killing, underhanded queer—
Was urinate on Middle-earth lore too.
I thought his love for Tolkien was sincere.
I thought he had that virtue, clear and strong.
Today it’s obvious that I was wrong.

–Tom Riley

Loquacious

Loquacious

(for TMR)

Unceasingly they feel the urge to speak:
To blab, to gab, to vomit verbiage.
Out of their mouths they take the foulest leak—
And all that you can do is turn the page.
They eagerly proclaim the world their stage—
And then prove that they cannot act worth shit.
Their phrases circle in a little cage.
Within their limits, everything must fit.
They glory in the exercise of wit
They do not have, appreciating proudly
The way they pick at every tiny nit.
They’re murmurers – but, oh, they murmur loudly!
Avoid unwise attendance at their show.
I’m telling you all this because I know.

–Tom Riley