Category Archive: PETER’S WRITING
Lager Lout
Hogarth's 'Gin Lane'
Amid outdoor furniture, alight, on concrete concourses of the night he stands, atop the French police, wielding the bloodied fleur-de-luys, lustily crowing and thumbing his nose at the prospect of the high-pressure hose. We can drink up his lager grin as his fist lands on another chin attached to someone seeking to restrain his torching of the city, ere he boards his train. “I will tear away what is not mine”, “I shall roam and leave my sign”, “When I pounce in the park for some r & r” (o-ho charmer, how came you there?) “Putting on airs won’t go…
Continue Reading →The Mountains of the Moon
(photo by Jeroan Komen)
The World’s surfeit of idiots; A fool’s load, a most wearisome state – Future’s boot is upon its tired face, Beautifully marred and pale. Arise – go and bathe in light softly gloating; Taste waters both creamy and dark – Idle away in the colors of night that softens ground hungry for warmth. Descend into valleys not trod by men, Ramble about with weightless bulk, Over the Mountains of the Moon, Beautifully marred and pale. Rake over paths taken but abandoned, Know of their presence but cover them over; Enter, then, into the Valley of Shadow and Have the gorgeous…
Continue Reading →Rodent and Firefly
Euclid (the other one) by Domenico Maroli, 1650s
St. Peter: How came you to be down there. Sir Alfred Ayer: You mean in Logical Positivism’s chair? St. Peter: And generally in such infernal spot. Sir Alfred: Specifically, it is a seat best known as hot- However, others burn intensely for theirs it’s not. St. Peter: Bertrand Russell, Berkeley, Hume and Wittgenstein, you mean? Sir Alfred: Precisely and many others now not read or seen. Daubed with the mud of metaphysics, you can see where they’ve been; Off verifying nonsense, their minds are not clean. St. Peter: And why are you in the Seventh Circle? Sir Alfred: I thought…
Continue Reading →Bluebeard
There lived a cold unloving man who dwelt alone in castle walls But tension worthy of a clan kept him company under a high-strung roof. Dreading women, loving battle and the hunt, A Bluebeard; frightened of, frightening children. His cellar stocked with vintage wine and bodies of the loved ones Who knew too late the fate that came of knowing him: Tied to sterile dreams, fated to form an empty vessel, Drained of all emotion, drunk by a leech’s thirst. Speed is of the essence, there’s no time to catch a breath, Hurtling deathwards with precision; He keeps the past…
Continue Reading →Straggler
"Isle of the Dead" by Arnold Böcklin (1880)
He felt he had lost the edge, Somewhere along the way. He thought he could only improve, That his powers were permanent, But he badly misjudged his talents And the transient mood of the throng, Woke to find he had lost the edge, Somewhere along the way. So he glanced more sharply, more often At the image growing closer before him; Rubbed the surface of the mirror with vigor, To gain clarity of perception, But with deep disappointment, he realized That the portrait grew ever still fainter, One day it would blacken and vanish, Somewhere along the way.
Continue Reading →