Wednesday, December 06, 2017

December: Creative Platypus


Loving Christmas is easy
As a child;
You have to learn to hate it.
Business encroaches and
Seasons fall out of joint
The further finance forces you
From home.
Moloch always did hate children.

I tried to find the snow
That fell at Christmas
But it withered with the
Carols that Anglicans are
Too holier-than-thou to
Or maybe it was just the
Commercialism Harvey blew
All the way to the windy side
of Thanksgiving.

There was no magic
In those eight lost years
When we hauled our own
Christmas trees from the
Jones' and set them up
Beneath the vault of a
Cathedral ceiling.
There was pain in every
Movement of the saw.

These words are blood upon
The snow.
They lead past the river to
Our exile.

Tuesday, December 05, 2017

Admin on a Rampage

Poor Bob... He set out to traverse the upper elementary like Flat Stanley. On the way, he lit the teacher's desk on fire and our Admin decided to make an example of him. Below is the rule of our Awesome Imperiatrix as the 9th graders describe it (with a little help from Frank Miller and Herodotus).

Sunday, December 03, 2017

Found Among Papers in the Miskatonic Archives: Creative Platypus

Drawing of life form uncovered by the disastrous Miskatonic expedition to Antarctica in the 1920s

No organic specimens related to these drawings has been located though a related bronze artifact of unknown provenance is in the keeping of the Mathematics department

Please forward this picture and attached memorandum to Mr. Weyland

Wednesday, November 29, 2017

Oedipus in LA: Creative Platypus

Oedipus cut out his eyes and placed them
On a table
So he could see himself

Oh tell Artaxaca that his bridges are broken down!

Monday, November 27, 2017

November: Creative Platypus


These are the days when I feel
It would not be sad to die;
My hopes and dreams add up
To so little.

Does life go on there
In cities under grey skies?
In places I know not?
Tell me all your ways and stories:
Men in heavy coats and caps,
Coffee held in hands wrapped in finger-less gloves,
Who breathe the air in plumes of smoke.
I dreamt I wandered through the cities of the North
And loved them.
Their seasons' beauties were beautiful to me
Who knows only hot and hotter.

If you care to know, here is the thing that
I am saying:
Can our sorrows be sharpened to a sweetness
and what Kassandra said come true?

What is the weight, then, of one dead Irishman
In a world that belongs to Swedes and Anglos?
We died in droves an no one noticed except
To hang signs saying "No Irish need apply".
(God make us kind to Mexicans!)
Can I reach across the ages and make meaning
From their deaths?

The only thing that matters here is service
And the Iliad of our own sinfulness
(though that word's gone out of fashion).
So we'll keep fighting on for justice until
We're slain.

Wednesday, November 08, 2017

Lilith: Creative Platypus

See the Lilith of the Waste Place
Stand beside her spouse the Dragon

Thursday, October 19, 2017

October: Creative Platypus


October is
The return of the world
To the way it should be.
Days grow short
-even this far south.
Slate grey skies
With a head held together
By Cymbalta
And too much tobacco.

The Sibyl of Cumae
Writes her books on
Autumn leaves,
Carving strange signs
In outlawed pumpkins.

The Sphinx stands in my way,
Corpses beneath her feet
Glow strangely
In the fading light.
There are things in that smile
That only heroes know,
But I am no Oedipus,
And there are questions
Not worth answering.
(Though one is free to ask.)

Hippias stood upon the
Shores of Athens
Coughing out pieces of his
Is there a coffin in Egypt
For my tooth?

The Sphinx smiles on.
I turn away.