God’s truth, I’ve never read such rubbish as
I read today. Spooning through a syrup in a
lover’s tryst of avidness – a bloated splurge
they left to say how much they prized your
pandect words. I tried to see you from their
point of view and failed. All I could find was
curds afloat in bile soup, an evil brew, green
with stewed invective foul - a mood as dour
as a black dog’s anarchy let loose. But that’s
all you; the one and same, the friend whose
eminence was self-acclaimed, the troubled
dilettante whose truth owned a lantern thus
to salute its own lymphatic shadow. Doesn’t
rest lightly in me yet, although I saw through
it. But for all of you who fell into the blighted
brightness of that feeble wit, arise I say, the
pseudo bard died an age ago, was borne away
on a rising tide and beached in far-off places.
All you see today are quirky three-line farragoes,
a few pseudonyms - traces of his alter ego...
© 19 November 2007, I. D. Carswell
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