I’m lucky. Really, guys, I’m lucky!
Because Tony is exceptional. Artist. Wastrel. A quantum of potential. Aha!
A fucking ideal. I can’t even believe that he’s real! Hey, Tony! Are you real?
Thank you, Tony… and let us go to the next collaboration? Please, please!
Lanterns shine too bright
and water drops too loud.
I’m a lonely knight
standing opposite the crowd.
Lances jut too pointy
at queens too busy quilting.
Quintains feel too jaunty
for serious windmill tilting.
The firmament gets bleak.
Clouds weave the decoy node.
Pinnacled rooks beak
apples on the patchwork road.
Full import and all portent,
or is this mere priestly babble?
Preaching safe from beside the war tent,
in unholy war they dabble.
A phthisical bishop spits blood
into cream roadside manure.
The left quintain falls with a thud
losing its air-headed allure.
The right quintain sprouts lambent wings
and a halo for a hero’s journey.
It can have my heart as I’ve no wish to depart,
to forswear my stratagems twisty turny.
But it’s zugzwang, and I’m too tired to prate.
God save my Queen! I U-turn at one fling,
and make public a smothered selfmate
for my despicable sterile King.