zodiac31 Jan 2004
[NB - coming out of a black doze pockmarked with nightmares of charging cavalry and endless lines of impressed yeomen foot-soldiers, I find myself on the floor of my office in three daysâ growth of beard and a sort of contrived samurai armor made of old pizza boxes and damp sweatsocks (not mine â of this Iâm sure,) my wife folding laundry nearby and glancing occasionally at me with an amused expression. What has happened? I ask, more than a little angered by what looks like the very real possibility that sheâs been humoring me through another of these... spells, steadily gathering ammunition for her endless snipes against my (to say the least) sanity, credibility, and manhood. Oh nothing, she answers, eyebrow cocked â though it may relieve you to know the Huns have been repelled, the Saxon hordes bribed, and Macarthur is returned and reigning victorious over the Pacific front. Oh no â I gasp, my gaze falling on the scattered papers around me, scribbled in a kind of hurried runic shorthand, some big sheets covered with hasty sketches of enormous catapults and besieged port-cullises. Have I, I ask, been... rambling? And without waiting for an answer I lunge for as many papers as I can reach and ram them quickly into the nearby fireplace. Soon, all of them are burned â all except this last bit. BUT THIS IS THE LAST WAR POEM, I SWEAR!!! I am not a veteran; I am not the tallyho sort; and in fact I hate violence in any of its forms. So let me apologize for any... aberrations you may have been required to tolerate over the last few days. Rest assured, I will soon be back to writing poems about first love and thoughts of suicide â the normal subjects, things a guy can feel... well, dignified writing about. Once again, Iâm terribly sorry. Thanks for understanding.]