Knowing You Are

Huh, all you need know about
depression sucks, knowing
that stuff’s the same as adding
more fuel to a fire you’re trying
to suffocate ineffectually

Hardly an appropriate analogy
sure, because there’s precious
little heat in it, more like
an icing up of engines
and steering gear

You’re rudderless, not quite
becalmed, meandering aimlessly
between little things that may
momentarily capture your
wholly divided attention

Bumping into half-formed
ideas doesn’t bruise as much
as sending the same away
without recognising messages
each may have contained

Worst part is knowing what
dissipates this energy also
leaves you lethargic, ill-at-ease
and, yes, depressed – like
you know you are
© 1 November 2011, I. D. Carswell

Living With Dogs

Cooking a week’s worth of dog
tucker rates up there with
resolute promises made to clear
the clothes-line before it rains

At best tenuous speculation;
guessing weather successfully
is as fatal as presupposing you
earned canine endorsement

These boys dutifully lick their
bowls clean but still wander off
to chew pointedly on whatever
they really desired anyway

Weeks old and vilely mouldy
means more flavour I guess or
muted suggestion best left to
hound-handler speculation

But you’d think that clearing
a clothes-line was innocuous
enough wouldn’t you – well
you’ll have to think again

It drizzled while hanging the
stuff out first place – so does
this negate any pact made?
I don’t think so

Said items are heirlooms
passed freely on to the touchy-
feely comfy night-time repose
coterie of canine eminence

Dry bedding is way in excess
of premiums paid for culinary
endeavour – no less sanity
than a curse’s cure I’d say

But if it’s wet I’ll bet they’ll
doggedly wrangle their way
inside the house tonight on
a specious technicality
© 31 October 2011, I. D. Carswell

Political DNA

must be more to it than
just a bunch of randomly
recombinant strands of
DNA – while it explains
evolution it says we’re
still changing rapidly

egocentrism and the old
staple – megalomania,
an esoteric form of self-
delusion, assume auras
of infallibility when we’re
dealing with a politician

or does it occur only in
heads of naive believers,
those minor accredited
characters in followers
roles who’re told what
they’d ideally like to be

but figures out today say
youth on reaching voting
age don’t fret about not
registering; it suggests
they can’t see anything
to believe in or follow
© 28 October 2011, I. D. Carswell

Invitation To Lunch

An invitation to lunch at Indian
Brothers is not a test, ‘tho perhaps
displaced in grey spatial reality

and yet conceived in an effortless
expression of guileless spontaneity,
a shopping-spree’s post-scripting

the parameters fall into place, yes,
can see it making sense, vicinity,
opportunity, correct time and space

plus happy memories – flavours
to linger spice-like on palates lightly
sated, aiding romantic intrigue

but it’s an impasse already aweigh
in oblique contiguity – a crock-pot
of slow-baking blade steak waits

without trust of reprieve; a case
where to be or not to be makes
the right choice anathema
© 26 October 2011, I. D. Carswell

If You And I Can Agree

Me old cobber keeps emailing me stuff, a
bit stunted emotionally he believes jokes
on our PM are developmental education
made no secret he’s anti-Labor

Never asked who I favour, never needed
I guess, my mordant comments usually
truncate discussion, digress into analyses
of the worst political personae cases

Being of a school of political belief can’t
augment anything except inability to see
reality as it is – a real ‘wood from the
trees’ dilemma

Party politics are gibberish pomposity
in farcical charades, absurd manners
faked within hidden agendas guaranteed
to reek of intrigue and duplicity

Face it Mate I say, placating his sense of
worth, beliefs aside we get what we pay
for; but there’s no real need for ‘em
if you and I can agree
© 25 October 2011, I. D. Carswell

Things That Really Matter

Somewhere there’s a disconnect,
the voices I hear are anxiously
expressing concerns we’re meant
to be troubled about supposedly

This AM its same sex marriage;
heaven’s sake isn’t it obvious we’re
more apprehensive about coffee blends
than homosexual matrimony

Legislation proposes similar laws for
heterosexual unions – bully for you,
what a condescending waste of
parliamentary debate

Yet it waxes and wanes on AM radio
amidst weather, traffic reports, Queen
Elisabeth II farewell visit snippets,
gratuitous out-of-date news

Could turn off the radio I suppose,
be hauntingly entertained by a Koel’s
mating call, but I’d be estranging myself
from things that really matter
© 25 October 2011, I. D. Carswell

RWC Final: France 7 – All Blacks 8

RWC, New Zealand, 2011

Wasn’t a win you could wallow in
but it was a victory perchance –
a valedictory in simile sense for
coach Graham Henry; and while

we’ll gracefully be spared acerbic
& truncated humour in the next
RWC c/o the same garrulous old
guru – Graham, thanks anyway

be that as it may the game was
played with an intensity beyond
imagination for a result truer to
the dire nature of real contest

thanks to referee & easily man of
the match Craig Joubert, without
whom we would have languished
in doldrums of clueless despair

Les Bleus played in pure white for
the final – a wry metaphor to the
All Black strip and silver fern worn
in opposing them

but at games end one point only
separated victor and vanquished,
at 7 – 8 it was as close as it gets
to pair elation with raw anguish

yet it matters not which team was
judged best, deserved more, or
came under scrutiny if the game
earned its accolades fairly

but think too of ghastly injuries
incapacitating great and about to
be players whose gift to the game
is a warm promise waiting

there were many hearts broken;
legacies now stand testament to
scared names feted and we await
claims for the new honour roll

at RWC, England, 2015
© 24 October 2011, I. D. Carswell

So I waited, in all decency, until well after the event!

Gaddafi Regime Ends

Forty two years supreme autocracy was ended
with his death – Muammar Gaddafi’s end infers
the quest is now complete; while guessing who
replaces him or which regime is frankly seen at
best a chancy lottery

Freedom sought will pay a gravid price in thrall
for years of deep regret, those contemplating
cleaning off the slate he left will fail and NATO’s
part debated as a key destabilising intercession
needing more in kind or thoughtful reparation

He claimed he’d be a martyr for his cause; case
and basis failed debate – it sends a warning out
to neighbour states who trend the same, it says
democracy invades in ways your sources can’t
detect or immunise the populace against
© 21 October 2011, I. D. Carswell

 

Be The Same

So what ARE you if you’re
not true-blue and clearly
colour-blind – it’s all you
find you’ll need within
our GREAT fraternity

Our great ‘WHAT’ you ask
amazed, I heard the word
‘fraternity’ ascribed? To
which vague chapter is it
meant to be an intimate

Don’t say, let me guess,
you sport a ribbon blue and
swear you’re Liberal clean
and true with earnest hand
impressed on heart

Or motley pinkish crew
whose blurred origins let
‘em claim only they Labor
best in representing what
suits an unruly mob

Or verdant band of fruits
best able to converse wisely
with sea and air in quest
to keep things Green and
growing

Or pack of aged Neolithic
survivors changing their
name again so as to be a
National influence – or so
the inference goes

Or grey Democrat tho’
not a credible choice when
making changes – their
voices echo implications
of blurred compromise

No, my Mob’s where we’ve
golden soil and wealth for
toil and not too far from
the bit girt by sea, if you
know what I mean

So sadly obsequious calls
to be a true-blue usually
entail  inept, over-inflated
egos wanting to share the
worst of deserved blame

Whereas the right thing is
saving integrity, when any
party calls I ask – do you live
next door? Of course they
miss the significance

I support neighbours I say
because we are in the same
space – it is not anywhere
near where you live so why
expect my support

I am not colour coded or
blinded by lame processes you
define so I’m free I guess to
be what I am where I am
which really is here

And that Mate is about as
good as it gets; so sit yourself
down and have a cuppa tea
or a beer or whatever it
takes to be the same
© 20 October 2011, I. D. Carswell

Conceding The Least

So you acknowledge the damn thing;
farcical isn’t it – could keep on grafting
for similar effects, muddiness remains
the same dolorous disenchantment
there’s no escape with dignity

and you’re conceding the least, a token
of frailty’s deciduous face, loss of beneath-
the-veneer self-assurance seen as proof
of humanness, and the concession
your allies are really needed

but already you’re gone away, as close
as you get to the beast without your
buoyant expectations, the black dog
growls – you know histrionics won’t
feed me properly, I need raw meat

then feed you say, a pound of flesh
for what I think – I’ll bleed copiously;
there’s insightful hesitation, a fleeting
sense of incandescent release. And it 
waits until you finish writing
© 19 October 2011, I. D. Carswell

Earth Moved

Enough of these masturbatory
fantasies – sources of dry wit
mix better with sultry praise

The earth’s moving is more
a celebratory appraisal than
uncritical acclamation

So clouds of innuendo float
free in agile subtlety – going
where the wind pleases

And there I dream the earth
moved under you and I
without a tear turned grey
© 17 October 2011, I. D. Carswell

Curled Goatee Seeks Public Office

the pubic hair transplanted on
your head is apt I do declare –
there’s no mistaking who and
what you are now that I know
from where its origins occur; if

you’d acknowledge whose it is
we’d reach a free accord and I
avoid impeachment on a claim
I made you’re female genitalia
so deranged to keep decorum

sweet – been known astutely
on the streets for many years
My Man, admit your subterfuge,
gain a credibility you’ve won in
leading fashion stakes today

then there’s an act we’d ask of
you which would complete this
masquerade to be hirsute and
neat – to also see if you can
grow a cutely curled goatee
© 14 October 2011, I. D. Carswell

Thunder & Lightning

the accusation wasn’t couched as an
indictment nor too far from truth but it
did presume test-of-character portent

arose from a habit of letting dogs inside
during thunder storms, implying charitable
indulgence and/or reciprocal respect

in reality little connects these concepts
except fervently unilateral expectations
on the part of deviously shrewd canines

whose classic behaviour posits impending
psychiatric disaster if suitable shelter isn’t
provided immediately – if not sooner;

and manipulative, I tactfully suggest, an
obvious, glaring anomaly is absence of
portentously cataclysmic celestial events

sure – all day the Bureau of Meteorology
issues gale warnings and warily suggests
potential size-of-apples hailstones

and PC accessible radar screens all
graphically show multi-coloured storms
swarming over the SE Region

yet the air outside is utterly clear – a few
clouds gather, muted basso rumbles echo
off afar undefinably – BUT NOT HERE

so violent storms are brewing out there
somewhere says the radio but I know canines
can’t discern colours on the PC screen

so I demur – when and if there’s THUNDER
& LIGHTNING we’ll revisit this concession
I say, keeping the door firmly closed

immediate censure is unmistakable –
visibly demonstrating my hearing acuity
is not as dependably precise as theirs

– then the rain begins; ah ha, I say, it’s
over, you’ve survived the worst canine
fears imaginable, and without a mark

but the question is still asked, did you let
the dogs in? No, I say, tho’ in mitigation,
and due to extenuating circumstances

I didn’t SEE thunder & lightning
© 14 October 2011, I. D. Carswell

Celestial Monologues

One helluva afternoon, storms gathering
intensity to the north – already you hear
faint thunder termed ‘severe’ by Weather
Bureau gnomes issuing urgently repeated
but utterly facetious warnings about extra
large hailstones on community radio

referring to hail damage on vehicles I’d
guess and not ears by overrated decibels –
it’s been anything but hell so far, a mite
muted even and bit too far away to take
seriously; even radar imagery seems less
impressed than it ought to be

but it has started to rain – and that’s more
of a blessing than a curse, we’ve been a bit
desiccated here from long spells of dry; and
that leads us to be welcoming whereas the
urbanites shelter nakedly in their feral fear
of these grand celestial monologues
© 13 October 2011, I. D. Carswell

What Is Left

politicians are what’s left after you’ve
wrung humanity out of a sponge; it is
not as bizarre as it seems, imagine an
ability to absorb any manner of toxic
waste and yet appear embraced wholly
and functionally natural – point of fact,
buoyed fat with joyful expectations and
braying utterly phony competence

there you see the essence of the beast,
the symbiotic synthesis of dependency,
a classic need measuring what ails us
all – the venom squeezed is viral angst
affecting society, incurable lest we be
attested true in use of a cleaning rag
© 13 October 2011, I. D. Carswell

Choices Paid

Hadn’t chose it, probably didn’t know
there was a choice – but to lose it hurts
worse than being denied the off-chance
of sometime fractious notoriety

If this is the scrapheap it looks much
the same as I’ve always had – choice
that doesn’t give favours or else play
favourites with whomever

Come to think of it I’d be suspicious
if it did – not paranoid mind you, I’m
past adolescent fixation that there’s
something out to get me

It already has; it was when a choice
made no sense except in being free –
too late to claim I was mislead into
believing it right – and had to pay
© 9 March 2012, I. D. Carswell

Making Peace

Have to be careful what I say,
if they’re offended no-one will
want to believe I’m right; that
is unless offense applies to us
all equally

But they’re hazy perceptions,
broad-nib splayed excess of
a spattered palette – easy to
see unless graphic innuendo
suggests severe mockery

Ironic isn’t it – taking the piss
is more likely to get your ears
than shouting ‘danger’; where
does good manners approval
come from then?

What I’d hoped to say isn’t in
bad taste, circumspect maybe
but which way will you take it
when it suggests we’ve need
to explain ourselves

Taking refuge in belief we’re
all equal in the eyes of Deity
allows irreconcilable freedom
independent of good intent –
but we share the same space

That dictates didactic bases
to co-exist peacefully unless
you intend to remove me, it
makes your motives at least
clear but not reasonable

So be aware I’m not about to
leave – either you change your
way or we agree a stalemate;
practise your faith as you will
but first make peace with me
© 7 March 2012, I. D. Carswell

Duck’s Holiday

Something up there’s playing
games, it hasn’t stopped raining
since yesterday – ‘tho patterns
impress, clouds spiralling, lazily
rotating over our heads, poised
aloof & coolly ruling this stretch
of our Coastal outreach – and

Seas to the East – a salt tang
you’d swear but it’s pure and
clean and falling steadily, creeks
in spate, low lying stretches of
road prone to excess already
inundated and warning signs
erected suggesting care

On a day like today the best
thing to do is stay indoors, rest
easy, fake a duck’s holiday
© 5 March 2012, I. D. Carswell

Her Special Way

No small demand can stay
the frantic pace of obligations
prearranged, alas, in vain to
try and please this tiny maid

Initially we need a safer place
to watch ‘Bananas In Pyjamas’
reclined midst lavish cushions
stacked behind our backs

And then an urgent plea for
change of pace, a need to drive
the pink 3 wheel machine
and use its mobile phone

Motivation is a call to cousin
Aiden – Tis me, says She, I’m
driving out right now, & then
to Me, We’re going back!

Next a special tent that has to
be erected for the Lady of the
Manor House to play her proper
role demands a duty call

Proves not quite what thought –
too hot or airy or plain ordinary,
boring maybe as a woebegone
review of simple fact

Ideas to resurrect dilapidation
of an aging house for dolls to
pristine former glory earns respect
and ends the day in carolling

With pride of place restored in
being Granddad to a Lady Waiting
on no ancient favours – doing
things unique her special way
© 23 November 2011, I. D. Carswell

Puppet Man

I confess I do not really know (or care)
which strand of oeuvre politics is cause
for brand-name tarnishing, but where
your view digresses from the evidence,
forming patios of innuendoes rhetoric,
it’s there I see the source

you’re mouthpiece for an etiquette you
said disports redundancy, a mundane
class of farcical and vague divergences
from solid rock declared our origins and
yet you rage we’re not; our differences
are what makes you unique

it gives you right to talk in riddles of an
arcane flair with praises ringing rich of
eras past – a language framed of noble
airs and social caste, a view where who
and what you think you are describes
in words just where you really stand

it’s there I see you now, reclining near
the seat of power with hidden friends
agendas tacitly secreted where we do
not see the hidden strands and strings
of leverage – you are a puppet man,
or am I just imagining?
© 12 October 2011, I. D. Carswell

For the Qld premier!

Makes Us Unique

Before-dawn squeaks of sandshoes
greeted most days – and preceding
Reveille in a way we learned best,
early rising habits aid an infinitely
detailed military cleanliness

Peaceful notions of a few moments
extra sleep before the bugle called
stayed pipe dreams; banter, abuse
& pillows flew, perceived as just &
fair rebuke – with due reparations

Beyond tediously polished linoleum
lay another surreal world, the one
of communal shaving, clean finger
nails, shampooed hair combed neat
as a towel-wrapped second nature

Its awakening began in a climb –
became reality in the making of a
few good men to endure the route,
passing their own survival tests,
finding niches to survive in viably

And we attested success, ‘tho if a
few fell away ‘twas theirs to chose
and they never really left; we’re
assembled here at the threshold
of what still makes us unique
© 5 March 2012, I. D. Carswell

Death Of Truth

It’s not intolerance when viewed
your way – merely facets of the
age where jurisprudence had no
rational place in holy words and
faith; belief you never based on
commonsense or let experience
dictate what seems a better bet

One voice alone in chanting text
within a tome, telling doggerel
unchanged a thousand years –
yet not the wit to see anomalies
as evidence; the World’s amove
and gathers pace in distancing a
timelessness of fabled adages

But you judged me as one who
couldn’t see the light – and yet
you know I read those tomes a
hundred times at night, studied
true to origins for clues arcane,
for ancient messages acclaim
and saw in words the parable

Achieving unity of faith as one
needs less a common voice to
raise dissent or glory in a trust
so bent to serve against those
ancient day crusades – whose
relics you now replicate to be a
death of truth you sorely bleed
© 1 March 2012, I. D. Carswell

The Proper Way

Surrender is the proper way 
debate is left to those whose
risking fate condones a claim
coincidence exacerbates their
wont to play a silent part

Tho’ far too late for you to
start to contemplate a change
of stake or rearrange capacity
or make a risk of throwing dice
to buy a better way

It is a simple word to say
articulating lessened stress,
abating weighted consequence –
as though there never was
to be a better state

And yet it isn’t giving in or
giving way, more a sense of
focussed innocence where
ego’s thrust is dried to dust
and blows itself away

Of course you’re free to ride
upon enlightened whims arising
in the ambience you didn’t fake –
surrendering forsakes that
conscientiously
© 1 March 2012, I. D. Carswell

The Occasion

not getting dressed in a uniform
used to suggest you didn’t care;
no use explaining where you‘re
at – prosaic jury’s out & passing
sentence

prosaic – colourless, banal, dull,
mundane, characterless: hardly
you you’d say aggrieved but it’ll
have to do – that’s what it is for
the rest of your life

unless you move; a bizarre but
colourful group of eccentrics is
now home & their mark’s even
weirder than non-conformity –
where being diverse is an art

it doesn’t work either, unity is a
misspelled word which probably
means you didn’t think of it first
and of course therefore have to
agree to not use it

but, you protest, that’s being as
nebulous as – or more dogmatic
than conforming to chronologies
of nonsense – you’re agreeing to
disagree
© 29 February 2012, I. D. Carswell

Moot Point

‘Tis a moot point isn’t it, a
Jack Daniels observation which
won’t attract dissenting views
if you provide the tipple

But I’m sure it goes deeper than
facile machination – the sour
mash Jack makes resonates
like 7th Heaven

So I’m in Paradise! That means
you are too, or we’re merely
fools playing shallow games
with today’s reality –

Evading truth reminding 
us we can’t make certainty
pure like Jack’s claimed
a mandate to do
© 27 February 2012, I. D. Carswell

Dust To Dust

Be aware, dust is the enemy,
no covenant of enlightenment
exists for warfare like this to
allay rational fears; apostate
& disenfranchised energy is
root of a sumptuous excess –
this challenge to order’s best
sense, dreams of cleanliness

Hallucinogenic games played
stirring air with a psychedelic
feather duster rarely powers
one’s soul – less circumspect
re-breathing of recycled ‘tho
dubious particles creatively,
parodies of grey largesse &
clearly bungled hygiene

There’s vacuumed caution for
articles of faith in Old Wives’
tales & adages of laying dust
making sense – where’s that
written, you ask respectfully,
wearing an air of incredulity
and optically prescribed new
multi-focal spectacles –

In vistas of sense not seen
before glasses marched into
terrain you’d swear was dust
free; even the sunlight angle
casts fanciful, unfair censure
in shadows of dog hair and
minute blades of grass right
where you just swept
© 27 February 2012, I. D. Carswell

Music Score

Empty words she grieved, a hollow
shell acclaimed in league with mostly
vacant vows – there’s nothing here
to warm the chill in me right now 

A pledge of low-fat fakery and wood-
fired pizza guarantees won’t charm;
please me how I need to be this day
or be prepared to pay an awful fee

Fly me to a moon of make-believe,
ascend with incredulity on soaring
wings – make me want to sigh
into a deeper ease the lazy way

Do these things apace your cause
for wonderment, play a forte role
for great success, make an honest
encore best as your applause

You’d please me more, she cedes,
with lesser rote in playing strings to
pluck and tune sequentially – know
I’m not your usual music score
© 26 February 2012, I. D. Carswell

Intrinsic Malady

They are symptoms more acute than
reasons to presume intrinsic malady,
that something’s in a jam and brooks
unsavoury woes can’t be denied

Too much too soon without respite it
claims; dams emotions freed of right
to chose their turn of counter phrase,
a matrix can be tired of change –

But still with tireless energy we will a
view immaculate of what we want to
see, and stay aloof of others games
to keep our options frank and free

Yet niggling never fades – as fast as
feet are found and herded into line
vision implodes into meaningless
pixelations of random discontinuity

A sign of age? White-outs used to be
the scene back when you tripped out
to come in; seems the manual might
be missing that critical page
© 9 March 2012, I. D. Carswell

Blinking Rabidly

Pardon me, but your slip is showing –
cynical words addressed no doubt to
Leader of the Oppn, bless his cotton
socks, slipping an opportunity to sort
out a recalcitrant Member for Fisher
over his bloated expense account 

Duly embarrassed Tony Abbott was
atypically speechless as Peter ‘The
Sleeper’ Slipper trenchantly slid into
Federal Speaker’s chair, a peerless
move impairing a theoretical Oppn
majority in the Lower House 

Tony’s doppelganger & arch louse,
Prime Minister Julia Gillard, literally
‘put in the slipper’, euphemistically
kicking him when down ‘tho asleep
on his feet and just not discretely
paying attention properly 

He howled ‘foul’ of course and railed
discontent loudly in Parliament over
contemptuous ‘outrage’ of a fair and
reasonable principle, yet had it been
he at the helm it would have been
celebrated a classic counter coup!

So where they’re at reeks rancidly
of intrigue, political miscegeny and
intransigence – I wasn’t really naked,
he said, I simply didn’t have any
clothes on, while she, missing a
miffed chance blinked rabidly
© 24 February 2012, I. D. Carswell

Ruddy Shame

A Ruddy shame they’ve shafted
Kev this way – he’s always been
a decent man, a nicer bloke you
understand in politics is rarity –
a precious gift disgracing all the
dirty depths these pollies pace

He’s plain for sure, of vapid flair
inflated by sincerity to where it
makes you cringe; it’s cruel – he
cannot lie convincingly, concede
or hide distress about duplicity in
lives his nearest colleagues led

With due regret it made him tick
I’d guess; his interest isn’t power
of status misapplied, the game’s
right of reply he sacrificed for air
to breathe that’s clear and freed
intrigues of other’s perfidy
© 23 February 2012, I. D. Carswell

Political Cuisine

hissin’ down today – wall-to-wall
water stretches from this window
to that flayed sense of bored despair
presupposing nil prospects of a ‘fair
and relatively unbiased’ State election,
campaign already underway, abrading
stillborn fears all spectre-wretched

but this isn’t an ‘only’ hiatus bared, an
‘innocent’ subliminal connection appears
to lurk – all this is on the same day a
goat’s meat tagine gets the go; then
Oppn Leader Tony Abbott cynically
interviewed pre-empts breaking news
of a Government leadership challenge

if there hadn’t been fungus growing
on the parmesan grater it’d have been
dismissed as coincidence awaiting an
irrelevant chance of fleeting fame; ‘tho
there’s no denying something’s rotten
in the State, it’s not such that a
tagine’s scent won’t ameliorate

thus sinuous meat and disparate
flavours ease agreeable taste and
palatable savour – yet no amount of
Federally astute political stewing
on low heat will deem a candidate
like the Oppn Leader cuddly or cute 
- or hautely cuisine!
© 23 February 2012, I. D. Carswell

Re-Runs

“The Golden Girls” faked piety to
age where absence of reality’s
insinuations handsomely paid;
‘85 to ‘92 its charades played
shtick subsumed in parochial
roles they disabused on-stage

A grand coiffure abased outré
elegance assured that second
glance – parodies of vaguely
dithered penchants kitschy in
their oddity but less a context
making any mordant sense

Episodic antics posted views of
newly-minted, alien scenes a
mite oversimplified as Miami
sets, yet so extra-terrestrially
well portrayed in abetting an
exuberant plastic eccentricity

And so the shows flowed in a
conventional stream of inflated
repartee, as did Emmys – and
came an impasse of popularity
waning faster than any fame
abrading farce sustains

Yet here today you can endure
re-runs of the same dry Dorothy-
isms, mystical Sophia-istical
double-entrendres, Rose-tinted
solipsisms and bizarre sexually
Blanche-d diminuendo
© 22 February 2012, I. D. Carswell