Flammeus Gladius

Carmina et Verba pro Discipulis Meis

Tag: Sonnets

Animal Control

Animal Control

I have owned several dogs that wandered off.
My evil neighbor captured them with glee.
It did no good to bark, to howl, to cough.
He always chose to act maliciously
In response to the opportunity
Presented by an unresisting pet.
He always called the sheriff – and I’d see
My dog hauled off. The same may happen yet.
Forgive, the family tells me, and forget.
These are not things I often opt to do.
Still, I don’t think I have to pay this debt.
I’ll leave that labor to a distant crew.
My evil neighbor’s strength is swiftly fading—
And Cerberus, I understand, is waiting.

–Tom Riley

Very Interested

Very Interested

What are our U.S. interests over there
In Eastern Europe? Fucking New York Post
Can’t say. To be explicit they don’t care.
Easier to be haunted by the Ghost
Of Cold Wars Past – and then in vain to boast
About the might our tranny military
Will wield at moments when it’s needed most.
The quintessential hero is a fairy
Here in the West. Are evil Chechens hairy?
Has Putin lost his ever-lovin’ mind?
Of Russians every blabbermouth is wary.
Our interests over there are undefined—
But, like a dominatrix, still insistent.
What matter now if Eastern Europe’s distant?

–Tom Riley

Bunch of Regular Guys

A Bunch of Regular Guys

But Wagner didn’t do it all alone.
Regulars of the Russian Federation
Were heroes, too – and, in the danger zone
Triumphant, wreaking utter devastation
Upon the Ukronazis whom that pest
Zelensky played like pawns. His NATO bosses
Thought that his idiotic plan was best—
And so the Ukies took tremendous losses.
In spite of all the smoke that CIA
Imbeciles blow, the Russian cause advances—
While leaders of the West, far, far away,
Continue to adopt unyielding stances.
If Putin could take D.C., district squalid,
I think he would be doing us a solid.

–Tom Riley

Special of the Day on a Very Special Day

Special of the Day on a Very Special Day

(12 January 2023)

The selfless heroes of the Wagner Group
Have won – and Soledar is in their hands.
This shouldn’t be reported as a scoop.
Anyone in the world who understands
Should have foreseen that NATO’s vain demands
Could never make the Ukronazis win.
The propaganda shifts like windblown sands.
Is this a smirk I’m wearing? Just a grin.
In Heaven, Russian saints ignored the spin
And relayed to their comrades vital grace.
The enemy, awash in Western sin,
Had no saints on his side, and yielded place.
Prigozhin, I attest here openly:
You served up one delicious victory!

–Tom Riley

(Yevgeny Prigozhin, who governs the Wagner Private Military Corporation, also runs a prominent Russian catering operation.)

Secrets Are What People Are Made Of

Secrets Are What People Are Made Of

Thank you, my dear, for that self-revelation.
I hold the intimacy it implied
Close to my heart – which, in its proper station,
Is cold and calm and unperturbed inside.
I am not here suspecting that you lied—
But, if you did, the thrill you gave my soul
Is still a thrill that cannot be denied.
If not, it is indeed gold that I stole.
But, please, no more! I’ve learned to love you whole,
Aware I know you superficially.
Hide deep things deep and play the easy role.
I’ll keep in mind there’s much I’ll never see,
Much treasure that I’ll never get to steal.
That is your substance. That’s what makes you real.

–Tom Riley

How to Choose Your Proxies the NATO Way!

How to Choose Your Proxies the NATO Way!

When NATO chooses puppets, it prefers
Ideologues whose motives make them crazy.
It doesn’t help when human feeling stirs—
Or logic. Intellectually lazy,
The proper pawn drools nonsense he’s consumed
With mother’s milk. He thinks his piss is holy.
He’s sure that all who disagree are doomed.
Against hard pucks of truth, he stands as goalie.
His masters don’t have faith in anything
Except the riches they’re accumulating.
The half-baked hymns, though, that the stooges sing
Boast notes that bank accounts find stimulating.
Does endless war cost some? It pays the best—
Who pay no damn attention to the rest.

–Tom Riley

(Like Stephen King, Zaluzhny is a Banderite.)

Murmurers

Murmurers

The murmurs now proceed, I’m well aware.
Opinions are exchanged and reinforced
That shouldn’t have been formed. In poor repair,
Out are the processes of thinking sourced.
Struck by this shaky lance, I’m not unhorsed.
You will not see me rolling in the dust.
Still, these my judges cannot be endorsed
As anything resembling right and just.
I have real faults, but those that are discussed
Are fictional, and detailed far from fact.
They can’t betray who never held true trust.
They can’t stand tall whose posture is an act.
My final resolution is sincere:
The murmurers I do not wish to hear.

–Tom Riley

Another Option

Another Option

Some opt indeed for dogs – and they’re okay.
Some opt for cats instead. All right, I get it.
But my allegiance goes another way:
I opt for snakes, dear people. There: I said it.
Our furry friends are too damn similar
To us. They show the wretched urge to cuddle.
From all that crap, the serpent coils afar
And boldly offers us a cold rebuttal.
A reptile pet is more a fierce machine.
The snake is smoothly streamlined for survival.
Such calm efficiency does not demean.
In its own realm, the serpent know no rival.
Against that strength my spirit will not harden,
Whatever happened in some mythic garden.

–Tom Riley

Pueri Erunt Pueri

Pueri Erunt Pueri

The New York Times tries humor Oedipal
In origin. Ha, ha. What telling wit.
When such cunts, though, grow sickly Classical,
They only demonstrate they don’t know shit.
Truth is, the fate of Oedipus was writ
By Daddy, who molested Chrysippus,
Son if his host, and in that fashion spit
On common decency. Proceeding thus
To brand new crimes, the uncorrected cuss
Exposed his own son on the mountaintop.
Impossible but still imperious,
Laius the Reprobate just wouldn’t stop.
Despite The New York Times and all its noise,
That bastard should have let those boys be boys.

–Tom Riley

Out of the Box

Out of the Box

The present that is opened disappears.
It ceases to be present. It is past.
My soul past all such disappointment steers
This morning. Joy still fades, but not as fast.
As I resist all greed, the future’s vast
With promising unknowns that yet might be.
Why should the treeside die be duly cast?
Why not remain in possibility?
Santa, shut up! Your sheer vulgarity
Is quite enough to make me count you out.
Your presents I shall leave unopened, see?
If you don’t hear my quiet words, I’ll shout.
One present must be opened, though. I mean
The Baby Jesus, Savior long foreseen.

–Tom Riley