[Newspoetry] SuperBowl XXXVII -- Pre-Gamut Sea-Quells

[Donald L Emerick]

SuperBowl XXXVII -- Pre-Gamut Sea-Quells

I am waiting on the invasion forces to arrive,
knowing they'll be leaving their calling cards,
their can't-level-homes-without-it super-cards,
turbo-charges-up San-Juan-Hell to Babylon,
waiting for the Snow White-flags to show us
the Whites of their blind Eyes when they see
the Blood in our steely Eyes stains our Hands.

I fear SuperBowls served as drunken roadshows,
eaten by ragged homeless persons, enraged on
by those in toil on no toilet as florets, et cetera.
Bucs and Raiders, names for two terrorist teams,
will be hailed for pounding against each other,
proving that one of the two teams of bad guys
will emerge victorious as a super-supreme evil,
and wear rings for champing-on-a-bit champions.

Am I as incoherent as mirages for a spectacle,
a ball-like bomb flying through the bursting air,
grabbed at by swift hands of uniformed players,
who have practiced and practiced their injuries,
perfected ways to play, on this side of death,
to fake conflict as nonetheless simulate-real.

Nice games are played, most two-sidedly;
collateral casualties are third party damages.
They are not of some announcer-predicate,
they are not culled out by the call cameras
for endless replays some day as the game;
eyes can tell no other stupendous ad lies
when a big game is in a stupid glass, focus:
precious air-time spins multi-million dollar lies,
tears from leaf-lets of thought-cluttered images,
like newspoems, stealing pre-arranged tunes
of emotions charging against an uppermost,
a light brigade of a different color, red brigade
that throngs itself at the yawning mouth of hell,
and sticks out tongues, says "Aah grim+aces."

Orifices put out their aura feces for our faces,
to lick like lollipops, good-sheep Lolly popped,
and deserts that threaten to come sans home,
all spent out for soils we carry on in carrion-led
war crimes as trials of third international game,
assuming, once more, that we get to be a judge,
to pronounce the verdict, execute the sentence,
before defense's evidence has been introduced.

A defense says, "Corpus-christ-i Deli-fed Delicti
must be found, buried in burning desert sands,
own blackened dead, bleak ions of beacon oil.
Smoke not your guns unless be-smoken unto;
Prey on no others unless they do prey on you;
Covet not secret covers to secure a darkness,
Nor be ye ones first to fumble at Hot-Foot Balls."

Big dances bring Big Chiefs while many Indians
stay at home, alone, smoking out piping pieces,
peeping Pisces, piping pied-pinned stripe suits,
hoping the game never ends on a tongue-tied lie
that finds it must makes its dreams come true
or else be found out for faking ala monde fraud.

Randomly waking,
listening on and on,
my black-listing on
Donald L Emerick

PS:  Is this a very good poem?  No.
Even if you call it a newspoem?  No.
I may be most usually a bad poet,
and an unusually bad one at that,
but I am not (wholly) delusional,
about the quality of my words,
or the inequality of our swords,
like some (many? all?) leaders,
as cases of a class, presidents,
most notoriously show, and tell,
too much of what I know, my flakes
fake anti-constants for racy spies,
jumbling to juggle all jig-jug jugulars,
conspiracies of plaid-words played,
said for unsaids, undamned times,
a damned who dwell beyond times:
undamming rivers repress, tog-ether;
an artful poet would say something,
dis-close a dis-clothing cloak-claque,
and not be content for dis-contention,
a new conflict of the faculties of Kant,
worked out as if a personal resolution
transcends every universal absolution.
Child play?  Yes, a child; I play behind,
behind web-footing, duck-tailing fiends.

T4L, DLE
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