As thou had will’st or had will’st not
The question lay still unsevered.
Being, yet a timely function,
Scoffs at the bodkin’s lament.
True to thyself then be, nor then
To any other will thou be true.
This command above all others precedents,
Raises up the fool’s cap and doth orate:
Alas, poor Dorik… the dank, muddy earth
Eats away at the wombed flesh,
Sucks out the soulish marrow and
Leaves only the grin sardonic face.
The Opheliac bleeds her none-ish platelets,
Dripping onto the gravied train she hoped
To wear to her betrothal; but hocked, her ring
Tolls the stygian crossing, while above,
the peeling dongs on.
Down above. Swords slang.
Poisons drapt. Words ablate.
And still in the end, the speech, prithee spoken,
Fails to move the audients, leaves them not
Wanting more, but leaves them all the same,
Clamoring for a refund too late.
The troupe already decamped, bites its dime;
One thin – in the abased history, succor
Is given to the same ad homonym.
The tragedians troop on.
The comedians scout ahead.
“Comedy equals tragedy plus time.”
So. If Shylock found himself at Auschwitz. . .
A pound of flesh at auction would not
A lampshade fashion, but might a mother’s
Betrayal acquit, so that behind the curtained
Plush, where thespians wait to lie,
Hoping to expose the groundling’s fate,
A gilded rose by the guild arose,
Scent from the array of deaths foreordained.
And from behind his desk, the bloodless,
Black-lipped director plots his revenge.
In the goose-necked light the little hitler
Moves his minions about.
A pawn sacrificed here exposes
The bishop’s prick, in the final act
A knight must fall to undrape the bitch-queen.
In the end only one remains, who must choose
To sacrifice himself if he truly desires
To master the game.
To kill the king will end the show
And draw the curtain down.
The knot untangled in the noose;
A final quietus made.
But tomorrow night. . .
It all begins again. . .
“Dear Rosenkrantz,
Dear Guilderstern. . .”
poetastrophy 