A Horatian Ode to Junpei Iori.
The rookie fiddles with his chin As marching organ sounds begin, The pitcher eyeing up his prey His winning hunger pains the day.
He spits upon the ball of thread And raises it above his head The fastest bowl to start the show A made career with killing blow.
The bat it cracks against the sky It disappears! Home run, they cry! He hits it hard again all spring And into fall, a cool he brings.
A year has passed, the pennant won A champagne bath, a job well done But one man fails to lift the cup The MVP whose head looks up.
Towards the stars, a dwarf perhaps The coffin of his romance lapsed “Chidori”, with a daint he hums Unzips his bag with fingers numb
Then on the mound he lays her down That dress of white, that wedding gown “Chidori, look at what you’ve made, These cheers your sweetest serenade”.
Forgive me lord, for I have sinned, Though I know not from what, Perhaps it is my lack of sleep That puts me in this rut, I hear the devil’s words at night Those fears he does incite, Those spiders in my flapping skin Awakening the blight, Those nails, long and unabridged That petrissage my nose And leave my head in search of space, My mind now food for crows My thoughts are filled with viscera And smut and ill intent, I am too tired to write of it, I am too spent to vent.
Oh, where have all the good words gone? When were the muses slain? When did their ashes swirl about And scatter in the rain? Calliope, I knew her Alas, she is but bone Her slaughter beamed in colour Onto every screen and phone Oh, do take her to Funkytown! Do grind her into dust! Do lock her in a crypt behind Some Oedipusic lust! Do push her torso further down Into the tumble dryer! Do violate her bareback And keep her in the mire! Do trap her in the monkey cage Until she howls and cries! Do light a mourning cigarette And burn her as she dies.
Our planet is a news stand, A disparate mess of views, A million little stimulants We can’t help but abuse, The papers are for dressing up The algorithmic fronts, A journalist for everything And nothing all at once, The world it must be seen not told And never must it rhyme, To sing is to be Dada And it surely is a crime, So melt into your cabriolet And pour yourself a scotch, For when there’s so much happening We can do nought but watch.
