The Outsider (Part I)

The following is a lengthy poem I had originally planned to include in the sequel to Maniac Tuba. It was "written" by a character named Tedmund Arlen Shinarook, a despondent, alienated widower. I based it on the more esoteric poetry of T.S. Eliot, and there are many references to events in Maniac Tuba, as well as ones from the (unwritten) sequel, Stone Creek Nights. Still, I think it can be somewhat enjoyed on a visceral level, as well.

1Tedmond Arlen Shinarook (1965- ). The Outsider. 199-.

The Outsider

Et male consultis pretium est: prudentia fallax,
nec fortuna probat causas sequiturque merentes;
sed vaga per cunctos nullo discrimine fertur;
scilicet est aliud quod nos cogatque regatque
maius, et in proprias ducat mortalia leges.

I. QUADRIVIUM

Oh March, failed Venus, impudent Venus,
Your shadow falling across this cactus land, no longer
Suffering the peaceless people, chasing away
The poppy orb of a nuclear furnace setting in the sky.
April changed the minds of pretenders, smelling
Like burnt Naugahyde victory, shaking off
The burden of its penitence.
May was a kick in the meatbucket, stumbling over the Sinjar
Under cloudless skies; we were gone only for a day,
But the memory remained, back to the truck,
Cursing the bodiless voices, sliding into the warmth of her sucking mouth.
Ma kathaba an fa’ala, aktahalat ‘ainah bi-jamaliha.
And back in the day, staying at the Canterbury,
Awkward stirrings, the office held a b-ball pool,
And I won forty-five dollars. I said, Sandra,
Sandra, you’ll have to wait. Right left, get on up.
You are such a bazoo, that is what you are.
What that is, I don’t know, only that you are one of them.

How many pennies would cover, would coat
This ill-famed town? Lay down your burden,
And listen, and do not flip me the bird, or some other
Indexical sign, as the parade passes,
As the scientists try to correct common sense, those modern shamans,
And seek from us a Diomedan swap. This game
Isn’t all kung fu and supermodels,
(‘Noble’ fool, your vintage is failing),
And there’s a trenchcoat at the door hammering away
Possessed by spirits of the abyss crying your spoil and ruin
And he doesn’t care he’s at the wrong door;
This isn’t a lyceum, it’s a gulag.
May I come in?
Shall we pretend we could keep you out?
‘You asked me if I was holding the fort down;
I want to burn the fort down.’
–Yet you will see, soon enough, how strong our army is,
In your red velvet pants, holding your blow torch, you cannot
Escape, ruff tuff creampuff, the Father of Knowledge
Will come as he left, in blood and fury,
Shattering this Beaufort zero, and make you tremble.
Bright was the moon and far was my home.

For the next installment, click here.