Louis Masai, When We Go, Shoreditch, London
The murmuring of Bees has ceased;
But murmuring of some
Posterior, prophetic,
Has simultaneous come,
—Emily Dickinson
Prophetic powers she possessed,
And thoughts she could not show,
More sensibly by us professed
Than Persons, that we know—
They make no more sense today,
Than bean rows to a hoe!
She was just a tiny thing,
And I am littler yet
Who roam about this human hive
Attempting to forget.
Friday, January 16, 2026
Even the best poets write too much—
They can't help themselves. Then,
Somehow, their poems may get published.
Reading them there, they blush inwardly:
As Dr Johnson said of Milton's Paradise Lost:
“None ever wished it longer than it is.”
Who wants a prequel to Goethe's Faustus
Or desires a sequel toThe Waste Land?
Perhaps it was to stem the inexhaustible flow of his Dream Songs
That John Berryman jumped off that bridge.
Emily Dickinson was the wise one,
Who wrote her lines on scraps of paper
And stuck them in her bedside drawer.
I'm no beau of Amherst Street, but
I'm as fortunate. No one will publish me!
Writing my verses on my phone, I release them
Into the uncharted wilderness of the Internet
And watch them race off into the darkening jungle, whispering:
“¡Adiós! Go with God! Goodbye!”
There’s nothing like obscurity to help a poem fly!
Apologies to What’s-His-Face . . . Kit ?? Marlowe ??
Come home with me and be my trophy wife
and we will see those pleasures leap to life:
Silicon Valley’s, Bohemian Grove’s—
and dives' that offer crazy hi-tech loves.
I have more shirts than you can shake a stick
at—my world extends beyond a cringy
fuck! My prick is flaccid, but my purse’s thick!
My love life, Love, is love as love should be!
Do you have a name? Can I call you mine?
Perhaps you’d like another glass of wine?
No? I’ll see you, maybe, some other time.
Really, I mean it! That’d be just fine!
See, here, Philomela, toying with my dick
—it’s just the thing for pleasure after school!
(Why should it be, though, that I’m feeling sick,
not thinking of the future as a rule‽)
No, this wasn’t just a patriarchal trick—
You say that I don’t love you! Oh, alright!
You better go before we have a fight.
(I think that I might kill myself tonight!)
Her Reply
(Written by Sir S—— F—)
If global warming weren’t a thing
and the bees were still there to sting,
I’d live with you and be your bitch.
At very least we'd be quite rich!
But, alack, the hour is late
and Armageddon’s at the gate.
Besides, you’re cast in Epstein’s mold
—and, what’s more, you’re rather old.
(I fear, too, I might be a dike.
Girls are so cute! What’s not to like?)
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
Philomela mightn't be so bold,
But for now, you ugly fuck,
You can keep your precious muck.
Wednesday, January 14, 2026
