Mythbusters Burst the Boundaries

Mythbusters Burst the Boundaries

The Yankees’ lies against their conquered foes,
the overkill that stomps a reputation
and to obscene lengths quite intently goes
in search of absolutist obfuscation–
these did not cease with Forrest, Jackson, Lee.
Oh, no! Old Abe is targeted already.
With former lies new liars won’t agree.
The whole past totters, frightfully unsteady.
And, if the Stars and Stripes are crucified
as was the Southern Cross, I won’t be weeping.
How do you like it, guides without a guide?
You who cry out for far too long were sleeping.
Today you reap what shrieking falsehood sows.
You merit every syllable, God knows.

–Tom Riley

Byrdwatching

Byrdwatching

Justice for Ashli Babbitt? Hey, not here–
where murderers of unarmed girls are lauded
on both sides of the aisle. Inspiring fear
in citizens who know they’ve been defrauded
is good for politicians, blue of course,
but also red: there’s not much clear distinction.
One group wails Satan’s slogans till it’s hoarse,
one sucks up ill-shed blood, but by intinction.
Yes, over here that bastard Michael Byrd
is in the clear and widely celebrated.
Amongst the ruling class, no wrath is stirred.
Instead, those who complain are fiercely hated.
But elsewhere in the world, Byrd, folks are pissed–
and Comrade Putin has you on his list.

–Tom Riley

On the Moral Courage of Chris Christie

On the Moral Courage of Chris Christie

I never liked Chris Christie, I can say
with utter honesty. So when he cries
to bogus heaven for those Hohol guys,
I know he’s being fat, and fake, and gay.
Nor does Trump, whom I have liked, think my way.
Maybe he isn’t buying all the lies–
but he’s not praying that Zelensky dies
the way that I am. Ain’t no shades of gray
for me. I am on Mother Russia’s side
and think that Comrade Putin is a saint.
May NATO, now outmoded, be defied!
May history choke off the loud complaint
of every neo-con! Some have replied,
“You’re kidding, aren’t you, Riley?” No, I ain’t.

–Tom Riley

Counter-Reparations

Counter-Reparations

Some GOP clown calls for reparations
of his own. He repeats the stupid lie
about why all those Yankees had to die.
“To free the slaves!” he says. Such obfuscations
can’t hide the fact that Lincoln’s calculations
were otherwise. Such fictions cannot fly.
Why do these propagandists even try?
Can’t they anticipate the complications?
The war was fought to crush the independence
of any state that dared to raise its head
and not just join Leviathan’s attendants.
The Yankee plan: to rule the South through dread
and subjugate fierce liberty’s descendants.
The cause of freedom afterward was dead.

–Tom Riley

Unaltered

Unaltered

In my mind’s eye, I see what you saw, Paul.
But will it alter all I think and do
as it did, beyond any doubt, for you,
whose former zeal was lost beyond recall,
replaced by something even fiercer? Fall
to earth, O walls whose height I never knew–
that I may have a different point of view
and nevermore be blinded by a wall!
But, then again, stay up, at least as fences,
even though heart may find you wearisome.
It’s possible that Paul just lost his senses
and that his inner clarity grew numb.
Why should I let down all my fixed defenses?
Why should I court a Pauline martyrdom?

–Tom Riley

Pattern Recognition

Pattern Recognition

R. Emmett Tyrrell once knew E. Jean Carroll.
Yes, in a column, he has dropped that name.
I mean her name, not his. The pattern, sterile
with affectation, is of course the same.
They both play the aloof initial game
right at the start. In both, the unstressed L
is swallowed at the close. They both proclaim
a self-importance bodied forth from Hell.
And my contempt for both I cannot tell
adequately, although I mean to try.
Only those kinds of prose style have a smell.
Only that sort of cloud so hides a lie.
Why do these patterns endlessly recur?
V. Dracula I earnestly prefer.

–Tom Riley

Ballad of Black Tom: A Verse Review

The Ballad of Black Tom: A Verse Review

This charming little volume is a version
of H.P. Lovecraft’s “Horror at Red Hook.”
With human help, Cthulhu’s planned incursion
advances. Poor Malone is forced to look.
However, in this woke interpretation,
the racial element predominates–
and Black Tom moves beyond his lowly station
to take revenge on everyone he hates.
The world will end, unwarned by any comet–
or rather, it’ll be Cthulhu’s soon.
Most of this woke stuff makes me want to vomit.
It is a dull political cartoon.
LaValle, however, shines with fierce black light.
His points are subtle, and he sure can write.

–Tom Riley

Jonathon Van Maren Fails to Read My Mind

Jonathon Van Maren Fails to Read My Mind

Some lame Canadian who has a place
there in the neo-cons’ tight circle jerk
pretends that he has probed my mental space
and understands how all my neurons work.
Why do I think that Putin is the bomb?
Because of Trump and stuff and blah-blah-blah.
As he pontificates, I’m staying calm–
but I’m pissed when his orgiastic ah
arises by the campfire. Listen, twit:
I was for Mother Russia long before
your diaper first was filled with infant shit
and long before you whined about this war.
Why do I hail Vladimir? Here’s a clue:
I know that he’s for Mother Russia, too.

–Tom Riley

Dotted Line

Dotted Line

You sketched the dots, ma’am, on the fucking line.
You can’t pretend that they were never there.
Your self-deception is your own affair.
The judgment I deliver, though, is mine.
On veggies vague and vacuous you dine–
but, as you do, I know you are aware
the beef despises you. Do angels stare?
Don’t let that stop you. Go ahead and sign.
You read the document and understood.
Denial, though, declines to be denied.
You will go on declaring evil good.
When stubborn facts appear, you’ll simply hide.
You’ve shaped your own eternal neighborhood.
In Hell you’ll be supremely satisfied.

–Tom Riley

Only When Necessary

Only When Necessary

I’m not reluctant, people, to employ
the F word for the purposes of rhyme.
It isn’t that I use it all the time.
It isn’t that I thoroughly enjoy
its use. It isn’t that I like to toy
with prissy sensibilities — or climb
the wall to scrawl graffiti. (That’s a crime.)
It isn’t that I’m such a naughty boy.
Rather, I wait till English as it’s spoken
demands I choose, in order not to suck,
the very word by which frail hearts are broken.
But then I don’t consider it bad luck
to offer base vulgarity a token
of my regard. There, almost clear. Oh, fuck.

–Tom Riley