Author: fledermausi

I am surrounded by darkness 

It is not the dark matter sort of total darkness  

This darkness is thick 

Oppressive 

Gluey  

Permeating  

Diffusing through substance  

Unavoidable  

Monotonous  

Inescapable 

It’s my own self 

¹

That’s it. Write to the Fledermaus or go and post your own poems at the Poetry Monster

1. Gustave Doré[↩]

April is approaching.

Snow is still around.

The old man winter raped the baby month of March

And slept with her tiny corpse in his deep-frozen hole

He must have thought that sleeping with the spring’s unborn firstborn

Will extend his own life by a matter of a few weeks, at least

If that was the winter’s goal, the old and cunning beast

Had won big time.

To say the least. Because the winter’s still with us

Oblivious to the calendar and our expectations

His snow is all around

So fresh and white, and pure as if it were without reproach

As if it were oblivious to April’s much overdue approach

Please, April, come and purge this place of snow.

Please melt the snow. And let’s move on.

I feel so tired of this winter.

Write to the Fledermaus or post your poem at the Poetry Monster.

White april is White april though it’s still late march. That’s it. White April. So unbelievable. So much snow around.

1. Hendrick Avercamp, 1585-1634[↩]

After a long pause, I came back to scanning old thoughts 

Long abandoned like my own soul at the end of a track  

Of rusty rails punctuated by pauses of cracked ties  

Where I lurk in the fog of horrible do-it-yourself lies  

Unwittingly concealing truths so unimaginably black  

Horrid things tied up in un-untieable knots 

Of numb memories causing pain so unbearably severe 

Inflamed visions of old train tracks running up to the horizon  

Which isn’t just there, it’s an optical illusion or worse

And around are the monsters of one who knows well he is sick  

Hopeless, tired, but you had enough time to get wiser  

Though you didn’t.

Don’t fear, the end must be near. For everyone.

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After a long pause. Oh, not really. After a long pause. Inflamed visions. Long abandoned. After a long pause. The time moves on. Mercilessly. Inevitably. Toward the same end. Oh, not really. After a long pause. Inflamed visions. Long abandoned. The time moves on. Mercilessly. Inevitably. Toward the same end. Long abandoned inflamed visions of hell if hell exists.

The Impostor’s Coronation

Twenty thousand-plus armed troops
Countless plainclothes thugs
And uniformed lowlives in groups
While agents lurked around as if they were selling drugs
Stonefaced, shamed-faced and shameless
Creatures in disguise stood guard around the site
Of a circus-like arena, the show on it as heinous
And just as sad as the defrauded nation’s plight
Hyenas howled: the freakish mummy puppet will be crowned
No matter what at the hijacked state’s most pompous ceremony
And courtiers pretend that it’s legit, and no one makes a sound
While the observers laugh at a scene so spurious and phony
Then, tje brainless mummy of a puppet is brought upon the stage
And regiments of troops protect it from its voters
(Some of them are zombies, others are just dead)
The usurper’s mummy is then propped up by its promoters
And dragged upon the podium, its visage filled with insolence and dread
And then they pull the strings, and the monstrosity begins to speak
While zombies on the flatscreens cheer, jeer, undazzled, unperturbed
The freakish mummy puppet’s head jerks and then with a sudden squeak
It utters hollowly – “Obey me. I am now the leader of the free world.”

Complaints? Suggestions? If you liked this or if you didn’t, write to the Fledermaus. Do you have a poem to share? Then try Poetry.Monster and help the monster grow.

Whether spelled imposter or impostor, the impostor election was no cause for celebration and the freakish mummy’s inaguration was a sham as we all know.

1. Gustave Doré, Conseil tenu par les rats, 1867[↩]

You find my prose so unrefined
So is my verse, no matter how defined
But here’s the evil of a far graver kind
The censorship, with it we’re in a bind
Censorship is the state when creatures
Who run your life’s most elemental features
Who ruin lives when they become displeased
As if our duty was to keep the nasties pleased
Decide what you can or cannot see
Or read, or write, or how you take a pee
The arbiters of who’s wrong or who is right
Some in plain sight, and others out of sight
Who censor what they deem may offend others
Though really, truth is what so much bothers
Them and their masters, evil puppeteers
The marketeers, the profiteers, the rackeeters
The peddlers of assorted fears, of scares old and new
You know them all, or how I wish you knew
The scum of the earth that slanders nations
The scum that infests offices and obscure foundations
Who pull the plug on you because you don’t comply
With norms of a fictional community, they lie
About everything — they’re afraid of the word
So let’s cast evil creatures overboard
Or, since we can’t for now, you see
Let’s keep pretending that we’re really free

Write to the Fledermaus

The Poetry Monster

 

This is a welcome message in verse for the Poetry Monster Please come in and help the monster organize his cave.

This Monster’s Cave looks like a mess
Though this is a disorder
Creative one I must profess
Or something on the border
Of madness, insolence, and vice
A building site to be precise
Disorder of the highest order
It’s not poetic paradise
Not even on the border
It is no plea, call of distress
But rather’s an invitation…
Come in, ignore the awful mess
And join the celebration
Of what may one day become
A monstrous undertaking
So step into the muses’ home
Stop shivering and shaking
In front of the ugly monster’s site
His sight is short,
His thoughts not bright
His treasures ripe for taking
His breath’s heavy: noxious foam –
Pollution of the muses
But don’t be scared, step right in
And help ignite the fuses
Shake the poetic nitroglycerin
Let us commence abuses
Of verbs, and nouns, and other words
Regardless of their bruises
Let’s burn some stuff, so hop on board
Let’s vivisect the muses!
Let’s also write some brilliant verse
Let’s put it to good uses
(It is impossible of course).
I know for better or for worse
It is impossible of course:
There is no use for verses
There is no use for muses
Though wait, and tell me what you hear?
I hear slurs and curses!
Ignore then, come, put down that phone
TikTok is not escaping!
Don’t run away but join what now looks
like A Disaster in the Making

 

 

 

 

 

if you liked this or if you didn’t write to the Fledermaus

1. Rombout van Troyen, 1605-1655, – Interior of a Grotto, oil on copper[↩]