Harbour

Tickle me. I have fingers long and slender.
Sickle and hammer. Karl Marx was a communist pig.
Down with the Reds. Sickle and Hammer.
No more applause, fickle and clamour.
I founded Al Qaeda by pickling my glamour.
I took part in the September 11th attacks on the United States.
I have plotted to injure innocent women and children.
I confess to my crimes and deserve to be shot and hung twice.
Tickled yet? Fickle yet? Fame or foe? Formed? Deformed am I?
Twisted like the sickle and bent and pickled am I?
You with your long and slender legs. Unused to the farm.
The amour the sledge. Did we become one? A Soviet of Saints?
Terrorist twisted in a tail of two cities. New York and DC.
Quebec and BC, actually. If you care to know.
But I am guilty and deserve no trial and punishment.
I am free to speak of the possible plot to overcome liberty.
Missed the statue but a hair. Long and slender.
Finally.

When that pours I tried. Hollered shrill voices on the night’s icy air. Pluto’s shores. Cold and mercurial. I want a divorce. Calpernia! Where is my hound and flesh? Give me my bond. James Bond. No. Gold. Midas. And jewels. Ruby and sapphires. Jades and jasmine. Marigolds and marmalade. There is a sequence of surrender. Suicidal notes at the end of the line. Beethoven and Calpernia ate pistachios on the night’s Plutonian shores. The thermometer’s mercury was made of water. And the orbit around the sun took all night. But at last, she was well dressed, since the divorce, you know. I know, you know, I know, you know. Confucius can be confusing if Calpernia can have her adamantine way. But Caesar will always weep when that the poor have tried. He will leap to paramount plutonian Octaviouses. Cry not.

England was a rock upon a stone tossed from a pebble beach called the continent. It was Normandy to the Franks and the Turks. But to the rest of us it was beyond the pale. The vale cast upon a thousand and one flights over and over again. Circular messages twirling tantalizing paths to land off Plymouth Rock.