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Nebuchadnezzar’s blue-eyed twin fed me
dates and warm sloe gin, while our hammock
for two swung above his concubinery.

So, all these women, do they run amok
when deprived of your Lordship’s mighty…um,
these are not rhyming couplets, just my luck.

Still, he caught my drift and gave a stern hum.
I had been warned, your curiosity
at times like these can verge upon the dumb.

We did not fly you here to speak of me,
but to coach you well in the spheric ways
now that you’ve been freed of polarity.

But, I—He cut me off and said, today
the world groans with heroes who have lost
their spunk and heroines in disarray.

Multiplicities of causes criss-crossed,
they tangle plaques and fibers in the brain
to make of joy pathology. Such cost!

Some jerkwad shoots you down and causes pain,
but do you learn? God, no! You hang your head
inviting him to strike again. That’s lame!

The azimuth soft glides you past the dread
of Noah’s arkish thinking, two by two,
to open new horizons like a bed

of honeysuckle kissed by morning dew.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image: “The Sultan’s Favourites”, painting by
Georges Jules Victor Clairin