Melodum Machina: Fritz365 2014

Preface

So we’ve lived to see another year then, have we? Well, that means it is time for a massive #2 of my 2014 content!

You may or may not notice the number of entries is a bit, um, smaller this year. I have nothing but my own laziness to attribute that to. As taking several days off from writing become rather normal for me this past year.

So for 2014, Fritz365, was more like Fritz192. Although I do have an uncounted number of sub-140 character, Twitter poems I did in 2014. Those are going to be incorporated here somehow. I haven’t decided how as of this date. Check the ToC, and see what I did. As well as my amateur illustrations I’ve taken to doing often. Those will be here as well in some fashion.

As I write this, it is Jan 3, 2015; and I’m already doing better than in previous months. As I have written something for all three days of this year so far. Yes sir, I am a reformed man!

I will be busier than ever this year, so it will be a challenge to keep up. I was elected to the local school board last November for a six year term. I suspect that this will entail more personal time spent reading things other than what I am used to spending my time absorbing.

I’m determined to maintain my creative freedom, though; despite being an elected official of the school system. We shall have to see how that works out for me; especially when I get a wild hair up my ass to write something truly deranged. As happens now and again.

You’ll find several random installments in this collection, relating to my stalled Earth 52.5 project. I had hoped to write it into my next novel length piece for NaNoWriMo; but I failed to do so. Hopefully, look for that to be completed and published sometime in this new year.

As usual, new posts will go up publicly on my blog page. The Fritz365 is going strong still! Now in its 5th year!

Cheers,

Frederick Damien Robel II

8th Day of Christmas

Upon this eighth day of Christmas

I celebrate the dawn of a new year

From high atop the amidships crow’s nest

Of the ship John Poole out of Glasgow

Mid Atlantic waves tossing us from peak to trough

Fully redefining what I had considered as being 'tough enough'

Tough enough for this duty

Tough enough for truly

To be swayed about in this exaggerated way

High up in this perch

Watching for 'bergs

Maybe for whales

Or flotsam and debris

Big enough to poke holes in this barge

Though truth be told 

I may have drawn this mostly unnecessary duty

Because as assholes go

The Captain was rather large

That and my having been intimate with his favorite scullery girl

Despite the miserable sway

And my thinking I didn't deserve to be treated this way

I sing a song of the eighth day of Christmas

With some sweet maids a milking

In the beams of the sun creeping my way

Orange in the morning on this New Year’s Day

9th Day of Christmas

Nine ladies dancing dominated my field of view

From halfway up the wall of the performance cylinder

I was roughly twenty feet from the stage floor

In a box seat balcony carved out of Lunar rock

Which left me right about at the peak of the dancer's leaps and pirouettes

The Luna City Performance Arts Council had put on a fine show so far

In their annual interpretation of the Twelve Days Of Christmas

By artistically presenting each of the day's gifts from the song

Today's was sort of the least inspired piece though

With its literal presentation of Nine Ladies Dancing

Their nudity an unexceptional addition to the traditional image

With it being so common in the public areas of the city tubes

With a final glance at one of the performers

As she arced beautifully near me in the 1/6th gravity

Her large breasts floating almost weightlessly on her chest

Before lightly returning to the stage floor

I got up and exited into the corridor that encircled the area behind the balconies

And found a stairway to the lower level

I've often found that more enjoyment can be found from the cheap seats

Where people are less jaded in their perceptions

And just in saying that

I realize that I'm part of the problem

I came out of the lower archway into the number eight quadrant of the floor seating

And found an empty seat a few rows back from the stage

Where I quietly sat down

It was then that I saw one of the most beautiful sights of my life

Looking up at the soaring nine ladies dancing

The transparent ceiling of the cylinder was their backdrop

With stars winking in the blackness

And a bit of the Earth looking down from the edge of the vista

I was transfixed as the dancers transitioned from the stage to the air

Seemingly directly over my head

Dancing amongst the stars and planets

The nine ethereal ladies

On this ninth day of Christmas

10th Day of Christmas

The tenth day of Christmas

Stole all the matching socks

So each the ten lords a leaping

Had one bare foot a protruding from their frocks

To put it into Star Trek terms

The Ferenghi sock faeries fell in love with their formula:

Socks + ?? = PROFIT

And so far it hasn't worked out

Breaking all kinds of rules of acquisition

Leaving most the 'verse in a perverse single sock condition

One socked lords a leaping

Are truly just the tip of the iceberg

With their hairy lord toes in the air

Leaping for the tenth day of Christmas

Like they just don't care

11th Day of Christmas

The eleventh day of Christmas

Peed all over the seat

Though I'd asked it many times

To try to be neat

Aim at the floating Cheerios, I'd say

It's fun, it's a sport!

But dried urine everywhere

Was all I'd have to report

Not even eleven pipers piping

Could add rhythm to his stream

Apparently just causing him to aim wildly

Doing nothing for the neatness of the team

Perhaps if I could install some sort of penis GPS

To guide the stream to the proper place

Yes on this eleventh day of Christmas

I only wish my son to be a bathroom ace

12th Day of Christmas

On the twelfth day of Christmas

There were twelve drummers drumming

In a marathon loft apartment session

Leaving the neighbors seriously bumming

In a large circle upon the second floor

Of the large old mansion that was now student housing

Twelve drum kits faced one another

Each with its own concentrating, slack jawed drummer

Sometimes the beats were in unison

Other times they were counter to one another

At the worst times it seemed that there was no rhythm

Just an acid fueled drumstick salute to the great Earth Mother

The neighbors called the cops

Who came armed and dangerous

But the drummers beat them back

With beat attack most thunderous

Ear drums bleeding

The cops called the National Guard

Who came in their tanks

And parked right in the yard

Bringing the main guns to bear on the house

The drummers responded with drumming war beats

Calling down lightning from high up above

With cymbal crashes and repeats

The tank hulls shattered

The cops ears bleeding

An air strike was called in

Sending the neighbors stampeding

Hearing the jets coming from far far away

The twelve drummers drumming performed a miracle that day

They drummed and worked magic

Both sensible and darkly tragic

Until that old creaking house

Just disappeared from sight

With a sound like the pop of a soap bubble

And all was immediately quiet in the darkening night

Leaving confusion and chaos

As always happens when something is unexplained

With numerous experts on Fox News making up things to say

All to try to describe this apparent miracle

On this Twelfth Christmas Day

An Apple a Day

Apple apple rolling round

Inside this fishbowl I found

Will you keep the doctor at bay today?

Or will you be eaten with nary a sound?

Dropping the fishbowl with a smash and a crash

It seems I found my answer from that apple

As I sat there picking shards of glass from my skin

The apple simply sat on the ground with a grin

As if to say:

Taunting my magic is folly at best

For it will be me who puts you to the test

Now do you want me to call the doctor for you today?

Or can you hold your pain and tears at bay?

After I picked that last shard of glass from myself

I carefully cleaned myself up

Picked up that apple

And ate it

Arctic Pretend

Polar bears in fake red hair

And cormorants in tight corsets

The researchers stopped to stare

The surgeons gasped and dropped their forceps

It was a spectacle of dress up play

With penguins making way

For more secondhand hand-me-downs

To make a real make believe kind of day

Everyone got in on the fun

With great costumes for everyone

Nobody had to be who they really were

It was an epic game of arctic pretend

Rags In Bags

My once favorite shirt

Is now frayed and rent

The armpits are blown out

The rest thin like a nylon tent

There wouldn't be any water needed

To see my nipples if I wore it

Though that didn't stop me from doing it

It was that stray nail head that tore it

Now it's going into the bag

Along with my worn out socks

Heels gaping open

Into the bag and into the box!

Underwear lurk in there too

Elastic stretched out

Seams in the crotch torn

And some irredeemable stains of poo

Regardless of what they are or where they hailed from

They are in the rag bag now

Destined to end up in the garage rag hamper

Cleaning off dipsticks or mopping up spills

Cast aside from their first glamorous purpose

Recycled and reused

But these rags in bags will end up on the burn pile someday

Bellowing black smoke to mark their passing

Much like me and you

Similes, Metaphors, and Fuck You

"Your honor

Clearly, the sea anemone cannot be faulted for its built in protection mechanism

And by that same token

My client cannot be found guilty because...."

The judge slams his gavel down several times in annoyance

"Bailiff, escort this son of a bitch from my court room!

I am holding him in contempt of court

And he is to spend two nights in jail"

Judge Calvert looks at the defense attorney intently

"Don't you presume to use a metaphor in MY court room, sir!

Next time, I'll move to have you disbarred"

As this vignette proves

Metaphors are very dangerous things

As a matter of fact

This little exchange is itself a metaphor

But it's so abstract

That I don't know for what

Clearly this can be seen as a simile for life

As just in life

Using the wrong metaphor on the right person

Will get you your ass kicked

Quest For Food

Out through the crack in the baseboard

Then a quick scurry to the free standing cupboard

There is just enough room to walk behind it

Then on to the pantry

Which is a perilous five feet away from the far side of the cupboard

Across open floor

Right next to the cat food and water

Tiny nose precedes long whiskers before little black eyes upon a furry face

With quick darting looks in all possible directions

Four creepy little pink paws gallop across the old discolored hardwood floor

A dive under the pantry door

And we're in

Wrong Dreams

Jesus looked at you with bedroom eyes

Making your skin crawl

As his hand rubbed your inner thighs

Keeping eye contact through it all

Then you awoke to find it was just a dream

And really it was your mother all along

Dragging her nails on your skin softly

In every way possible feeling all wrong

But you jerked yourself from sleep

Only to find yourself kissing your sister

Which was oddly arousing down deep

Though tasting distinctly of dog food

Then the alarm shrieked you awake

Your dog licking your face

He has to go potty pretty bad

And this is certainly no dream imagined place

So come on dog!

Who wants to go outside?

Who wants to go outside?

That's right, YOU do!

Spark

The dirty SUV driving in front of me

Is kicking up a dirty spray of ice melt water

That my windshield wipers can scarcely keep up with

In their tattered greasy condition

Suddenly an orange spark arced out of the driver's window