Twelfth Night Fiasco

Elsie Gassbang-Trott
always told it like it was-
essentially transvestite
noble by disposition
or by dint of nature—
girls will be the boys
& the boys will be the girls:

Whatever you want
Twelfth Night of twelfth day

—Now is the winter
of snide discontent—
Wrong Play, Belch
Burp, barf, bark…
Enter broken head:
Well, why you did ask!

Coming up three in the sub-post office, rain, pretty dull, quiet, the games have started, think I’ll take a break, go below for a quiet smoke, finish my too sweet coffee; brains gone native, so to speak, not responding to all this gender swapping on the company wireless.
I can see the Puritans giving out soon if they don’t put a sock in this…

more cakes & ale, Toby-Baby
Think I’ll forge a billet-du or two
Set the ball
Gallivanting mad
in love’s tacky bagatelle

entreat those three interlopes
loitering by the knick-knacks
come hither nuncles
excorcise the stable stench
with bawdy ballads:

Feast of Fools, Feast of Folly
Indented coastline
enchanted Adriatic
Harbouring novelties
under your nose, Malvolio
Ship of Folly, Ship of Fools

War Boobies

Angels One Zero—
shy antihero comes good
post uplifting prang…

Burnt black kettle bam-a-lamb
Soiled jakes nettle bramley camp
Galingale smells waft slow
O’er Hurricano Horlicks

Watching World War One
won single handledly
reassuringly by brave
bumptious public school chaps
sporting pristine pewter tankards
guffawing at goodfellows
cuddling cadavers
torching teddy bears…

End of the end of
the beginning of end of
the most frightful fiasco:
the goal is to the post
as the post is to the goal…
& the whole is sometimes more
sometimes less than the sum
of its particles…
unquenchable thirst
for adoration—
first after epiphany

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