Now is the Winter of our Incontinence

Now is the winter of our incontinence

Made glorious tragedy by this last 5 days of Debacle;

And all the despairs that lour’d upon our nerves

In the deep bosom of our Depends buried.

Now are our brows bound with sweat and worry;

Our bruised fingers cramped up for keystrokes;

Our panicked cries changed to meager weeping,

Our hopes and dreams to dreadful wails.

Grim-visaged competition hath creased our wrinkled brows;

And now, instead of mounting tea kettle to stove

To praise the souls of feverish novelizations,

We whimper quietly in the pot of our chamber

To the mournful teasing of a loon.

But I, that am well shaped for sportive tricks,

And self-banned from the AW looking-glass;

 I, that am steadfastly writing forward, for want of victory’s majesty

To type in the face of a wanton ambling novel;

I, that am curtail’d of this word count proportion,

Cheated of tea by dissembling nature,

Deformed, unfinish’d, sent before The End

Into this breathing novel, scarce half completed,

And that so lamely and unreadable

That dogs laugh at me as I write by them;

Why, I, in this weak piping tea of Debacle,

Have found delight to pass away the word count,

And have managed to spy my glory in the sun

And improve upon my past deformity:

And therefore, since I cannot prove a winner,

To entertain these fair well-written days,

I am determined to prove a victory

And rejoice in the idle pleasures of these days.

Plots have I laid, storytellings dangerous,

By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,

To set my novel on high, like a king

In fierce devotion to my newfound rage:

And if the Debacle be as true and just

As I am subtle, genuine and learned,

This day should the Debacle highly be held up,

As a prophecy, which shall hold fast

For evermore disciplined the writer shall be.

Write, thoughts, down to The End: here

Castle Debacle comes.

5 thoughts on “Now is the Winter of our Incontinence

  1. O Go! Midnight Muse, what a wounded name,

    The standings thus unknown shall live unposted in my heart.

    If thou didst ever hold me as taker of the crown of glory,

    Absent thee from fevered joy a moment,

    And in the harsh glow of mine computer draw thy breath in pain,

    To tell the story of valiant pursuers of words and tea.

    The rest is silence.

    Now cracks her noble fingers. Good posting, sweet Muse.

    And flights of angels guide thee to thy rest.

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