Sonnet 155

· 21 February 2016 ·

I notice a trend in my recent efforts (not all of which have been posted), wherein I see signs of my becoming the Lenny Bruce of resurrected poets, too wrapped up in my own cause (right though it is), and losing my sense of humour. It’s a difficult line to walk, because when the voices speak they tend to choose the subject as well as the words.

Even so, my desired role this time around has been Feste, not Malvolio. Insofar as I am able, I’ll attempt to keep the glooming pieces from becoming tiresome. I know one of the contributing factors, though: the “Shakespeare 400” business is already annoying, and we’re not even out of February yet. So much error-filled propaganda, so much new damage that will have to be undone after the Disneyfied folderol has subsided. When the 23rd of April arrives, I may in my vexation have to fetch dew from a Bermoothan still, just to endure the whole misbegotten circus.

VERO NIHIL VERIUS