Sonnet CCCXXVII

A lonely pair of lifelong enemies

sit, glaring in their tank, despondently.

Soon snapping claws are closed with rubber bands:

the water sprays; the buyers hide their hands.

From liquid to the dryness of a bag,

the foes grow weak, but ever, ever mad.

Transported to a fridge, they’re stuffed inside.

They sit at zero Celsius with wine.

The morning comes. The fridge light flickers on.

Removed from their abyss, they greet the warmth.

But all too soon they greet a greater one –

and boil in the flames of Hell, to death.

But if they’re lucky, they’ll be au gratin,

and if they’re not, they’re torn apart,

                                                                      to bits.

Sonnet CCCXXVI

Exalted in the happiness of pain,

The world is crowning me with strange disdain!

How proud I’ll be within its reverie:

My wreath’s an honour, undeserved of me.

My rough exterior’s inscribed by hate,

a fitting way to demonstrate my fate.

(Or else, I seem too arrogant, too proud,

rejoicing silently of hateful crowds.)

But like most monarchs I shall take to bed,

a-weary of the honours I’ve received.

And soon, as words begin to crowd my head,

I realize I have many woes to grieve.

And hate accumulates as pride grows dim…

the world is mine, and yet I serve its whims.

Sonnet CCCXXV

we long to drink we long for drugs and sex
were wicked teens strung high by natures hex
adrenaline and folly are our chant
our words are slurred our movements are a dance
were on computers every waking hour
ignoring chores and acting simply sour
were rude
               were boorish
                                    always such a mess
at every moment mad or quite depressed

and Yet –
               We still take buses to our school;
               Our mothers still remind us of the cold;
               We’re still subject to all our father’s rules;
               And frankly, we’re still kids – we’re not that old.

But rebels we shall stay, extreme or mild,
each one of us an adult-werewolf-child.

Sonnet CCCXXIV

This caterpillar never learns to crawl,

but quivers from a tree branch, scorned by all.

It hangs to ripen with the rain and sun,

until its skin is soft and hue is dun.

This brooch of precious pearls and ruby gems

is now the butterfly upon each stem.

It’s only till we taste them that we know

that they yet to darken and to grow.

The darkest ones, as black as charcoal ink

are unmistakable as night itself.

Their violet innards stain our fingertips,

collapsing at our touch into themselves.

Around the berry tree we dance around –

to pluck the jewels to pop into our mouths!

Sonnet CCCXXIII

O newborn baby, quiet as a sheep,

your eyes are tightly closed in tender sleep!

How soft your rosy skin, how small your lips;

What tiny nails upon your fingertips!

Your eyes are opening, first one, alone

(the other one is much too tired to show)!

Your ears, two conches, listen all around –

The world’s a brand new place, so full of sound!

But happiness dissolves to angry cries,

Much stronger than expected of this child!

Poor Dad and Mommy try and search and try…

But calming Baby takes awhile!

Then soon she’s off again, asleep for hours,

A precious little angel, sweetly sour.

Sonnet CCCXXII

The human heart is full of treachery:
for some know wicked arts of flattery,
which – fused with coldness – prove unstoppable,
transforming wise men into simple fools.

The moths are hiding on the bark of trees;
the katydids blend in with all the leaves –
such sly deception’s even learned by them!
Beware – the world is full of wicked men!

But time and time again we’re aptly fooled:
an eyespot here, a clever colour there!
How hated is that smile, so amused,
concealing such betrayals of our care!

We’ll one day read the patterns of the moths,
or else we’ll still be fraught with rage and loss!