Two Years Across the Spheres

Collected Poems

It’s now been two years since the start of this substack.

To mark the occasion, I’ve resurrected several old poems and attempted to save them from the damnation of insufficient craftsmanship.

The first poem is newly published and the remaining (previously posted) four have been re-written, hopefully hammered into a serviceable shape.

Reader, I thank you. Your readership has always been important to me. You have my gratitude.

-Nik

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To My Mistress Myrrha

Then, then she twirls in figures fine,
In pirouettes and shapes divine,
Her sweetened lip spreads forth her mind,
Full ripened fruit of beauty’s kind.

She graces her silks with comely speech,
The syllables dressed in handsome breech,
No word beyond her girlish reach,
And every one, seductive each.

Brightest of eyes, savage in hair,
A smile bewitching, a bounty rare,
Myths enrichen her softening stare,
Her lesser force builds greater care.

So to the mistress heaven dipped,
Who manna ate and Euphrates sipped,
Entreat thy muse that I depict
The love thy kisses hap inflict.

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Berserkoid

I am Berserkoid,

Outcast on the outside,
Implanted personage in wait,
Overwritten memory chips,
Inverted inside logic gate.

Technotronic marvel,
Skepticosmic receptitron,
Auxillary umbilical heatsink,
Technicolor semiotic savant.

Psychic wasteland moisture farmer,
Machine created of machine,
Daugher of the sun, sun of the father
Hypertonic saline bleed.

Spazmotrospium copium plutonium 
Overdrive reactor meltdown,
Neuro-interface adaptation, 
Xenogenetic ancestral mound. 

I am Berserkoid,
Selfsame-paranoid,
Schizophrenic Elysium,
Irreconcilable checksum,
Trans-satanic cryptogram,
Spectrophobic ectotropath.

I am Berserkoid,
I do not taste,
I have no eyes,
My fingers lead,
I have no seed,
I cannot breed.

Berserkoid, schizoid,
Pathogenic center-foid,
Slap and tickle,
Perma-fickle,
Enter the void,
I am Berserkoid.

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Kitty in the Purse

The Cheetah in her purse
Is looking worse and worse;
It cries and begs for love,
But rubs a pair of gloves.

It wants a little touch,
Gets cracked by a nail brush;
It wants a midday snack,
But catches in the clasp.

The kitty needs to purr,
And grumbles only slurs;
She needs a little kiss,
But madly slips a hiss.

The Cheetah’s feelin' sick,
Because it ate a lipstick,
Its tongue is Flirty Red,
It likely will be dead.

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Man on the Tinfoil Mountain

I’m the man, I’m the man, I’ll show you my hand,
It crumples up your heart inside you,
I’m the emperor of this pile of trash,
I’m everything you think but never do.

I’m the man on the tinfoil mountain,
The keeper of the metallic fountains,
Arbiter of the antenna accountants,
The diode fetish poetic plowman.

I’m a weasel, I’m a weasel,
A self-painting painter’s easel.
I’m the Grand Poobah of spiritual shawarma,
A latter day rain Dalai Lama.

Watch how I fly on electro-static,
With my tinfoil cap I’m a memetic asthmatic,
I cough up corruption like a hard drive sailor,
And hack it back down with a network inhaler.

I’m a clown, I’m a clown, 
I’m king of the garbage mound,
Look at my junk, it’s a palace throne,
It’s ever expanding, it’s the sequel to Rome.

I’m a satisfied Caesar, 
Self-pleasing people pleaser,
Glorified Sodom-feeder, 
Down on his luck baby-eater. 

I’m the man on the tinfoil mountain,
I ain't ever gettin' surmounted,
I’m sat like a prince on the jiffy pop,
Turn up the heat and I won’t stop.

My signal’s strong, your flight’s been grounded,
In the world of trash gold’s discounted,
So take my hand or be dismounted,
Crap is king on the tinfoil mountain.

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To Love an Ugly Woman

When I have gazed upon your face, I deemed
It not quite fit to look with ease. Methinks
It strange to lust your weird; And your fleshly
Red visage, though my eye sees clear, my belly
Disregards the outer form, ‘tis but the blood
Which knows this inner churning nether flood.

Misshapen lips and squinted eye, wayward sides,
Lubricious fawns so overgrown, I sigh
And full resign to what the primal finds
It needs complete its secret dark designs
To thrust my flesh through thorny tangled vines
And wrap me rooted in your flirty thighs.

My heart rolls round from your engrossing bounce,
And bestial spirits leap with emboldened pounce;—
    But when I see your lovelorn heart, I lay
    My eye aside, and answer to the call
    Of my torrential blood, and blithely say:
    Perhaps you're not so bad at all—not at all.

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