The MOONE & SUN,
Or, a Nonexistent True Story in Free Verse
[no foreknowledge of character is required except that which you already possess]
Futile “Freedom Fighter”: In the midst of my pursuit, footstep to footstep,
            I sank softly into a feral crawl
            The advance of a cannibal guerilla, hirsute and bloodthirsty course
            The aim was this: work over the stage-set topography
            Of those façade-monstrous trees et cetera
            Iam whatever hearmeroar et cetera.

Asides of the Golden Nimbus: (The Moone is God, & cain’t ye see
            She Heares thy abject Miserie?)

FFF [chastened]: Levers and pulleys, levers and pulleys
            Must it all be tracklighting and tripwires?
            Simulacrum of Simon Lachrymose
            And I the scion of a pasteboard Earth, renamed with each squalling infant
            Call me Ishmael, but not before ye call me Dedalus (St. Stephen defrocked);
            Please write to:                       
            Los-Urthona, c/o Enitharmon
            23 Hercules Rd.
            Lambeth, Dublin
            USA, Southeast Asia            76203

Asides of the Golden Nimbus: (The Sun is Lord, from Streame to Gulf,
            & Makes of Thee a Beowulf.)

Pádraig McCree [in dark den, smiling]: Now here’s a man, boyos, who could spend his youth 
            Slithering, non-prone, through Chilean jungles
            Restoring Allende’s ghost to his non-palace;
            Here’s a man could send a platoon of hollowpoints
            Sailing, with an ey-up-chappy salute, through the vitals of Augusto Pinochet;
            Here’s a man as tricksy and Fawkesy as any since Xxx Xxxx
            (and may god rest his soul aye bedad best mother’s son never a better—)
            Let us all sing for them, and for his hallucination-followin’, that fine old all-come-ye:
            And if ye wanted, gentlemen,
            Some gunpowder, treason & plot
            No man for all seasons, but have ye a reason
            Old Tom More should burn off the rot?

Narrator [omniscient, stupid]: But he didn’t, no, this lad equipped for subequatorial subterfuge
            Too busy in a cracked-leather diner somewhere
            Sketching transvestites and thinking about the Sun
            Songs (ed: of an age future & past) that nobody understands (ed: that everyone understands)

William [brother, son, Sun]: “Tho it appears Without it is Within
            In your Imagination of which this World of Mortality is but a Shadow.”

Michael Judge
Contact: lifeinaglasshouse999 (at) hotmail (dot) com.