Michelangelo’s Dream of Bogey and Bacall
Michelangelo the Psychic Lobster had a dream where he was playing Humphrey Bogart’s character of Philip Marlowe and having an encounter with Lauren Bacall.
After waking up, he decided to write a narrative poem about his dream.
He went over to his waterproof laptop to start writing but then decided to use his recently bought old vintage Underwood typewriter that had been custom refurbished to work underwater.
Grabbing some waterproof sheets of paper, he inserted them into his waterproof old vintage Underwood typewriter and started typing the poem.
Bogey and Bacall: Philip Marlowe’s Right On The Ball
A narrative poem
By Michelangelo the Psychic Lobster
Narrated in the First Person
By Philip Marlowe
(As played by Humphrey Bogart)
So I had come home after a hard day on the case
Rather difficult to try to sleep on a case of bourbon
I did do some work on that other case
Trying to find Max Spellbein’s younger daughter
Where do younger daughters hang out these days anyways?
I went down to Frankie’s Jazz Cafe
The Pink Flamingo Lounge
And even The Silverstar Nightclub
Nothing.
No sign of her.
I even went down to the bus depot and the shipyard
Her ship must have sailed when my bus came in
Does that make any sense?
Probably not.
Difficult to make sense
When one’s mind is adrift
In a sea of bourbon.
I lit a cigarette
Put it in my mouth
And made a silent prayer
That this combination of alcohol and flame
Didn’t send me up like a rocket on New Year’s Eve.
I thought I heard piano music coming from my piano
Which was strange
I rarely play the piano these days
Not since I got my fingers caught in that mousetrap
Under the altar of Saint Ignatius’ Church
When I said to the good priest,
“Pray it again, Sam.”
After sitting in my chair
Looking up at the ceiling
And watching the paint dry
It suddenly hit me
That I hadn’t painted this place in ages
So there was no drying paint to watch
That was definitely music I was hearing
So either someone was playing the piano
Or the angels were calling me
So I walked into the piano room
And there at the piano
Sat Max Spellbein’s elder daughter
Lauren Bacall: Playing the piano and singing, “When smoke gets in your eyes…”
I stood there
Inhaled the air from the open window
And realized I wouldn’t be spending the night alone.
-A narrative poem
and vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Saturday March 27th
2021.
Sherrielock Holmes and Mr. Truffles
Sherrielock Holmes and Mr. Truffles
It was the very first day of spring
Outside her Baker Street apartment
The birds did sing
In front of her bookshelf Sherrielock Holmes did perch
An hour after applying to Boris Johnson’s behind
A firm use of the birch
She was sitting next to Mr. Truffles
Who looked very dapper today
And not a walking ad for Ruffles
They would soon walk out into the London street
She the epitome of grace upon her feet
And the orange tabby looking very neat
A sneak preview of an Easter parade
Had not Euro governments given that feast
A failing grade
Easter was not in the best laid plans
Of genetic splice and men
Bill Gates wanted people in the lions’ den
Nero at the Colosseum may have played the fiddle
Nancy Pelosi’s bladder leaks pad underestimated her piddle
But for Soros, Gates and Xi- they gave not a diddle
So much of humanity had to go
At the dawn of this Malthusian eugenics show
The Great Reset must go with the flow
But Sherrielock Holmes and Mr. Truffles
Plan to beat zombie nosferatu overlords at their game
Giving this unique duo in history everlasting fame.
-A poem and vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Saturday March 20th
2021.
When Greek Temples Stood
There was a time
When Greek temples stood
In pristine
And newly built condition
When mighty pillars held up the temple top
And statues at the top
A goddess on either side
Of mighty Atlas who holds up the roof
In the same way he carried
The weight of the world
On his shoulders
There was a time
When statues
Of nymphs, imps and swans
Were fountains
Spraying forth
Warm blue water
Into warm pools of blue
Mediterranean blue
And one could bathe
In warm blue pool waters
And turning skyward
From the pool
One could see Astraeus
The god of dusk
Painting a golden farewell
To day
In the sky
There was a time
When Greek temples stood
In pristine
And newly built condition
Now is not that time
-A poem written by Christopher
Wednesday February 10th 2021.
Purr-lock Holmes The Purr-fect Detective
Purr-lock Holmes the Purr-fect Detective
He was Purr-lock Holmes the purr-fect detective
His reasoning was definitely not defective
With a meow here and a meow there
His magnifying glass looked everywhere
He was hot on the trail
With a flash of his tail
Les-trod of Barnyard Yard could not keep up
And he was often left holding the cup
Doctor Barksome was a cocker spaniel
Whose name wasn’t mentioned in the Book of Daniel
He was Purr-lock’s chronicler and sidekick
Who often gave his paw a lick
And Purr-lock’s most frightening case
Whose tale when told gives one’s heart a race
Was the Hound of the Basket-villes
Whose mere mention gave one the chills
And made one forget to take Dodd’s Kidney Pills
The Hound of the Basket-villes terrorized the countryside
And Inspector Les-trod wasn’t taking it in stride
Purr-lock Holmes was called in on the case
Thus with trusty pipe in place
Firmly in mouth on his face
Purr-lock set out on the trail
Travelling by train on the rail
He arrived near the manor of Basket-ville Hall
Where it seemed that his fur was starting to crawl
So Purr-lock set out on the trail of Hugo Basket-ville
And what he saw hence gave him quite the thrill
For there was Hugo with his mistress so fine
That it made one want to stop and dine
For Hugo’s mistress was Marilyn most fair
When you’ve got her, why chase a hare?
For Hugo was looking for fair flowers to pick
And didn’t know his barking would break the candlestick
Causing rumours to surface of a hound of Old Nick
So the case was solved and the hound was no ghost
And Les-trod’s career was now nothing but toast
Purr-lock and Barksome returned to London
And Hugo was left having nothing but fun-some
-A poem written by Christopher
Sunday February 7th 2021.
The Portrait In The Window
The portrait in the window
of a woman from long ago
One cannot remember, was she friend or foe?
A woman with checkered past or present
like in an old time Edward G. Robinson/Joan Bennett
1940s movie show?
Did she want to be painted?
A sinner wishing to be sainted?
Or was the painting already done?
As from foul murder she did run?
Or have all the different images of time
been mixed up in the dark room of one’s mind
Those who were bad seem good
And those who were good seem bad
Which ones remain eternal?
And which one just a passing fad?
And from the chaos of the present
Longing for an age more pleasant
A memory surfaces like a continent rising from the deep
No Atlantis or Lemuria at which fallen angels do weep
But a face, a voice, a laugh, a tilt of the head, a twist of curl
Nicole was her name and how I wished she was my girl.
-A poem written by Christopher
Monday January 25th 2021.
Morganella Pendragon
Near the mists of Avalon
The animals gathered
A highflying eagle
And friendly wolves
In these times
Only the animal kingdom
Has friendly wolves
The human kingdom
Is full of demonic wolf spirits
Particularly those inhabiting
The walls of the Vatican
Elon Musk’s artificial moon looked
Perfectly natural
In this Glastonbury atmosphere
And on this night
Protected by her wolf companions
And watched over by her highflying eagle
Morganella Pendragon
Immortal great-niece of the enchantress Morgan
Stood with cross-bow in hand
She had been taught the art of cross-bow
By Chiron the Centaur
And Cernunnos the Celtic stag god
There were very few cross-bow archers
Better than she
And now she would use her cross-bow
To slay
Those hordes of zombie nosferatu
Who had arisen
In this England’s green and pleasant land
Where the heels of devils walk
On England’s mountains green
And devilish countenance on
England’s once pleasant pastures seen.
-A poem and vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Saturday January 16th
2020
By the Twilight’s Last Gleaming: Good Morning America
Good morning, America, how are you?
I’m the spirit of the year 1917
The one that gutted the cities of Petrograd and Moscow
And I’ll be gutting your country 500 miles before the day is done
January 20th marks the start of the new Soviet
Your institutions so corrupt they faded at our sight
Media, courts and Congress
Anxious that hammer and sickle replace Stars and Stripes
No more free and fair elections for you
The Dominion Nazi takes it all away
Just social distance and put on your masks
Until we strip every ounce of your humanity away
Be like good little boys and girls and believe the news casts
Any dissenting voices social media will take away
Build back better is our motto
As we all tear down and destroy
Leaving nothing but nothing in its wake
Good-bye America, how are you?
Ronald Reagan called you the world’s last best hope
That’s why we took your land over
And we did it without firing a shot
50 years of a corrupt decadent culture
And you folded like an unmighty paper rock
Good-bye America, how are you?
Liberty lies dead at your door
And thanks to that long decadent culture
You lost your spirit to fight evermore
The Gates of Hell are upon you
And both bodies and souls we will have too.
-A song and poem
written by Christopher
Monday January 11th
2020.
Haiku About Friendship and Winter Storms
In midst of life’s storms
‘Mongst chill of cruelest winter
Everyone needs friend
Newly Invented Van Helsingian Style Haiku About Mai The Illustrator
He’d never met a professional illustrator before
And now having met one
He was glad he had
One Silent Night
It was a quiet night in 1816
When a young Austrian priest
Joseph Mohr
Went for a walk
Around the village of Oberndorf
In Austria
He looked out over a very quiet
snow-laden town
And the stars glistening
In the frosty heavens above
In his mind’s eye
He saw a beautiful young maiden
Wrapping a newborn babe
In a blanket
In a stable
In the back courtyard
Of an old inn
At the edge of a small town
The young maiden sang the sweetest lullaby
To her young son
He did not understand the words to the song
The young maiden sang
But it was the sweetest melody he had ever heard
He went home and wrote words to the melody
He did not know the words the young maiden sang
But he wrote the words of what he himself
Saw that night
A couple of years later
Franz Zaber Gruber
The choir director
Of Saint Nicholas Church
In Oberndorf
Wrote music to accompany
The words that Father Mohr
Had written to accompany
The melody he heard in his mind
And that Christmas Eve in 1818
At Saint Nicholas Church in Oberndorf
Austrian villagers first heard
The song lyrics and melody
To
Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht
Silent night, holy night.
-A poem written by Christopher
Wednesday December 23rd 2020
The Night Before
Christmas Eve 2020.
