The Criminal

I haven’t been committing crimes much, yet,
Although my mind has been preoccupied
With cabbages and kings. The oysters fried,
I ate them without zest, and on a bet
Crushed all the shells and left them sopping wet
In crackling piles two hundred metres wide,
Then I said something too mean, sort of snide,
About not robbing banks — not since we met.

A wondrous feeling, creeping over me
Like spiders on a slice of watermelon
Exploring, like the late crew of Magellan
Moving through the strait from sea to sea,
Reminded me I’ve lived life aimlessly,
An almost altogether blameless felon.

Omsk

I have never been in South Dakota.
North Dakota? Many times. Alaska?
No, nor Omsk, nor Omaha, Nebraska,
But I spent six weeks in Minnesota,
Probably more than my proper quota.
Dangerous and weird, my buddy Casca
Said he’d take me to Lake Athabasca —
Ask me, do I care? Not one iota.

I saw London Paris, and Chicago,
All without my knives, my Irish setter,
And my second cousin, the go-getter,
Made these visits with Casca, Iago,
Chanting witches, and a mad virago
Claiming loudly Singapore was better.

The True Artiste

The True Artiste, my alter ego, rises
To introduce the acts that will astound,
And educate, and thrill, and break new ground,
Leaving behind what no longer surprises
And bringing forth great giants, in new sizes.
I’ve watched you too long going round and round
With little more than sunken false hopes, drowned
In motor oil, with inexpert disguises.

I know one thing — no, more, two things at least,
Brought into this dark kingdom, built of grime
And sadder than dead land: metre and rhyme.
Respectfully, your friend, The True Artiste.
The hour has come at last, the wheels are greased,
And you will crave love when I’ve harnessed time.