Alas, the forallies Harpy and Valkyrie     Near assayed and altogether destroyed

The earth, engaging      In the fire art, enraged at everything.

Both being the same brood      One of speckled wing, the other spotted

This their only feigned figure     Of difference, forlorn and now forgotten.

One race bore from the North,      The other race bore from the South

Which was spotted or speckled      Specious it was, so no one knows.

The elvish Cur Brutess bore     The wrath, to unleash the elvish brutes

Upon the earth.     Forty thousand etched their way;—

Women nude, with nipple shown     Through shadow light, cloths

Beautiful, to bear their ivory      And ebony skins.

Learned the craft of the Valkyrie      Learned the craft of the Harpy

Bromdun was in the bulks of Alban’s      Hordes. When Brutess’

Snipers shot their shod lit arrows      Felling sure men of Alban’s sortie.

Sixty-thousand, Alban’s men maneuvered     With their steel flashing

Greatly upon shocked earth.     The silver sheaths cutting the gorge

Of the beautiful Elvan curs    Their breasts flapped in weapons brist

Upon the shaved death.     Alban’s men fought sure and brave

Beating back the Elvan onslaught.      Yet, in the battle, Bromdun

Was beaten with a brash blow       Causing he to bruise his borne brain

And ease himself of every      Sin’s epistle. Thus, every man saw Bromdun’s evil.

Bromdun fell, disgraced, digressed,     Like Andrey he fell, dying, dredged.

He was held in the back beds      Where bruised, he was bedded

In captivity for the revelation     Of his capricious repents.

Sin was brought to memory,     Memory left him maimed.

He heard the Lancs Lowing      Landing themselves in the lewd traps.

Bromdun leered, and longed     To have fallen with the long train of troops.

He has yet to hear     Whether York had halted.

The Bearwolf sung his songs     But the smell of the strong ashes

Of Lordess Brutess’ battle    Lingered over the battlefield

Like the prison boy,     Starved and pot bellied because of pride.

The Harpies cried for war,      The Valkyries cried for war

Bromdun, who had       Lost his heart in battle

Cried for peace;   Ever crying, carelessly.

Longing for Lancaster to Lampoon    York’s lackluster lewdness.

For Omri had omnipresent rule      Over the elvish operatives.

Canto I

A Prince once found       A pauper, poor.

Theodore Marmaduke,     Whom Wordsworth maligned,

Spent his life       looking for the greatest lovesongs.

Find he did       when that dumb pauper Doctor wrote his poems

Who dumb for lack of degree      Was a doctor due to his discipline.

Theodore had aligned altogether       With a wicked foe, abrupt

And unabashed as Unferth      Who understood nothing.

The Pauper, named “Prince”      Though a titular prince

Came to the Bawth isles of Brittos     An American bold and brazen

Beheld the waves.     Wondered he did at the wheat

For never did he set Flesh       Upon the isle’s forgiving shore.

A town towered tall,       So the Pauper called Bromdun Kratz Nuewfer

Titular in title called       Broomhill Crown New, to talk

His odes. Theodore thought      This thug not a thoroughbred

Thus set out to steal,       By the knowledge of the storm

The Elf jewel,     Thus jeered forth the Ladies of the Sea—

By sending Bromdun to a bawdy      Breadth of time, bereaved of his

Happy present.     Pretending was to pour out prudent truth

That in principle, the odes      Were true, though flesh pretend.

The ladies each shared one eye       Shod together lewd, at the head

They possessed power over       The populous sea.

The sisters spoke         “Bromdun Nuewfer, we see strong

“Are you, and your loves       Toward your youthful yens.

“For, with the youthful yens      We wish you to use to

“To call to core memory        Your crude crimes.

“Call to core memory, crude,       We shall also call forth core

“Memories most unusual        Ones of Madoc and Marmaduke.”

Bromdun possessed       A prized arrow and bow.

So shot forth the shod       A flaming tarth shooting from the shaft

To slay one of the three.      Yet, a song misted, and the sea

Slung back, steering strong toward        The skywave.

Bromdun had not a shield       So shimmied up a tree.

The seas flung one        Hundred foot fraught

Washing Bromdun        With the waves

Bromdun stood, harshly stormed       Another wave from the west

Come from Ire’s Land,      Let loose, and levied naught

To tear Bromdun beneath the       Waves brazenly.

Sum’d the Chok, the Chok       Who confounded the verse.

The verse was confounded,      And Bromdun was toppled down

Through the ocean’s depth.      For Marmaduke was strong.

Bromdun survived the waves,       So strung his bow one last time.

Strung, and fired the steel shaft         Shodding the arrows sorrowful

At the standing, prostrate beasts.      A prophet was not Bromdun

But a Nethanim he was.       To tell himself the hero

Bromdun had caught Marmaduke        And Madoc. Bromdun murdered no one.

But, Marmaduke and Madoc had.        Thus, the murderous intent was made

To marr Bromdun     But Bromdun had severely beaten

The one eyed threewoman with arrow arrayed       To weaken the armored shebeast.

But the threebeast threw herself       Thrusting forth to break Bromdun.

For Omri,        O’ Thou Theodore Marmaduke

In a fit of rage,        When he raised lies rude to flit

And fraught the minds of         Marmaduke and Madoc.

Thus, Bromdun escaped        When Marmaduke established

That Bromdun was just insane.      But, Bromdun was but

A trickster, who twisted minds       Tricked, and transfixed

In a bed of belied blasts      To bludgeon false prophets

With what he thought false prophecies.       So Omri would forgo

And forget to fight       The forbearing foes.

For Bromdun was but a blighted soul        Given discourse with Dionysus

In his castle. For Dionysus should know       That Israel is free

Therefore, it would be cursed if        Bromdun carried forth in the statues of

Omri, Dionysus, Marmaduke.      For to win, must Bromdun sing—

On my radio station

The K-Love emcee said

“Don’t try to paint yourself a masterpiece;—

“Let God paint your masterpiece.”

I could understand it,

Perhaps better than she could.

Every masterpiece I had ever written—

Should I have written a single one—

Had been orchestrated by a Word

Whispering somewhere in the metaphysic.

Malapropos or not,

There was the word

For me to use.

It came as natural to me

As breathing.

Rather, it was when I strove

For a word, or labored over a meaning

That I could not find one.

Frustrated that I could not understand

Every writer’s plight of having to make the words just right…

I suppose it is why I feel like I’d never struggled with this

Being my identity.

It makes me rare.

Let my ink tell the rest.

How long I’ve waited

And nothing has come.

A thousand prayers answered

But they are always the wrong ones.

What I ask for pleasure

I do not get.

What I ask for pain,

It comes and haunts me

For a week or two.

God sits silent

And laughs at me

His enemy.

Or so I believe

Though God is not my enemy.

I am not His enemy.

Rather, every harsh word I utter

Is proven true,

Every sentence and every punishment

I give myself is given weight.

I bear the burden of my sin.

How I wish the LORD would unyoke it from my neck

And loosen the noose of the words I’d uttered.

Not like witchcraft,

But rather, like some form of spell

Swirling around my head

That I myself had uttered.

Spies bring it the fruition…

They invade my life.

They listen…

Or is it family members?

Who is it, that listens to me

And brings my most troubled fears to pass?

Not God… for if it were Him

I would have peace.

Rather, the troubling truth

Is that it is not God

But rather my enemies

Are propounding and unraveling this life

Of mine…

Piece by piece.

Love by love.

They are replacing everything I love

With wormwood.

So forth,

As when the morsel gives forth

Its fragrance in the kiln,

Or love scatters its scent abroad,

You know the fruit

Has been perfected by discipline.