Sugar Rat Cocktail (a poem)

Sugar Rat Cocktail
(Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night)
by Michael P. Fertig

Sugar rat cocktails, mixed in bowls of blue.
Thunder bolt lightning, heaving through and through.
Latent skeezers, broken dreamers, foaming at the mouth,
While walled-out geezers filled with creamers prepare to journey south.
Mumbling piles of regrettable lunchmeat fester in the corner,
While humbling pies baked on Thursday give cause to a mourner.
The silky, soaked, and unsuppressable sobs cease to believe
In a sojourned delicacy that has been placed unfairly on the bereaved.
But yet, like a fleeting fleet of feeding feelers reeling in the fool,
Bombardments abound up and down the rocking of the pool.
For ’tis it not no boulder we watch careen down the slovenly slope,
In a direction sure to break the wind of all in range of humanity’s hope.
When the great stone that isn’t there finds its manifest missing
There is little that our breadwinner’s stare could not resist kissing.
Whether a golden-haired summertime lilly sitting on a lemur
Can understand the in’s and out’s of a captain’s old tramp steamer
Only leads one to believe in journeys both elegant and salacious.
And for this reason along with others one must render one’s self loquacious.
To tie the tongue with molten rock is clearly not unclever,
But to grease the palatte of another is a simply wrong endeavor.
When it becomes our place to mock another for their point of view,
Critical mass assaults our urge to bail out of our canoe.
Though we paddle with the strength of ten thousand mutant aphids
It takes but one Goliath to slay scores of unarmed Davids.
Strength of man cannot compare to the will of mighty flowers
Growing higher than the smallest men and toppling over towers.
When the unpleasant unctuous ogres gather joyfully to mingle,
Little can be done to halt the conflict that so often tends to tingle
The most uncouth, ungirding sense of falsehood which starts to take
a means of passage through the soul that belies that which is fake.
A contradiction, to be sure, tendered and plucked with known intents,
No matter how intense the tensions, the fleeing will commence.
For running hitherto upon a flagrant roaming cloud,
Is akin to jumping down from a disenchanted shroud
Whose cloth has borne unto us all a silhouette not known beyond
The realm of this in which we’re trapped, forbidden to correspond.
As the multi-colored bursts of beauty barrage the faint of heart,
It hardly seems a breach of duty when fear drips from the dart.
A poison liquid known to contaminate the righteous and the weak,
A unilateral terror for the strong and just another symptom for the meek.
They crumble to the ground now, strewn with presumption of the future
As tiny wishes tumble through our veins, until breaking through our sutures.
The languid languish languorically in a vile room filled with laudations
For the evil deaths which have occured despite our ministrations.
And regardless of attempts to rectify intangible rights from wrong,
Vulgar riffs of a heathen nature find their way into the throng.
And as we creep into a era decked in tattered smiles and spoiled laughter
It must be recognized that it’s nothing more than knowledge we lust after.
Yet escape us does the closure to this unending quest for things enlightning.
When the finality comes we quiver and shake and pull arrows spiked with frightening.
For whether a quiver of arrows or a quiver of fear the target remains fixed,
And let us not fixate too greatly on the the illusions which become mixed
With our sense of reality in a time of understanding and great confusion.
We’re just a stone’s short throw from being exiled to a purgatory of delusion.
Propagated magic beans sprout a stalk that grows into the attic of the sky,
We, too, must recognize the nonsense that might insulate us on high.
It is not a question of belief which might give us cause for grief,
As the lack thereof also can’t be blamed for the anger of a thief.
We must suppose that the puddle duck isn’t the cause or the solution,
A state repose of the muddled luck from which we gain our transfusion.
A bloody good bleeding has weakened the strong from an insurgent point of view,
Only to leave them ravaged and cold not comprehending of days of the new.
Full circle the lariat swings overhead like a blue-gray cloud, lethargically immense,
We close this prose by returning to the verse which undoubtedly holds the most sense.
Sugar rat cocktails, mixed in bowls of blue.
Thunder bolt lightning, heaving through and through.

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