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Sunday, July 16, 2017

Direct Rule of Surrey's poem for Geraldine

I am going to post these poems as I write them, because of the topicality of their subjects. I shall also only leave them up temporarily, during the composition process. I'm thinking of posting no more than 4 at any one time on the blog. And eventually they will all disappear. See here to check for poems from other days. Scroll back and find the other three... Also note the beginning of this sonnet exploration, Petrarch 3, is still for sale and is the featured post to the right of this column.




Direct Rule: Ghostly Geraldine

I know two women called Geraldine! Both fun
to party with, both write poetry. Surrey’s Geraldine
grew up in Ireland (like Patricia, but she’ll not
get a passport with that fact either). Lord Strange

of Knocking is knocking on his prison wall, racist Morse
about growing up in white Britain with pure princes,
(and about the ghastly food). Surrey was like that,
cursing new men and mere women. You can see it

in the way he traces the pedigree of Geraldine:
he found her at Hampton but lost her in Windsor.
At the end of the poem he gives her away,
an exercise in Petrarchan petting.

I wish he’d done something with this poem.
I wish I’d done something with my life, like jousting

at a tourney or receiving a blowjob from a man called Gerald. 


Direct Rule: Ghostly Geraldine

I know two women called Geraldine, both fun
to party with; both write poetry. Surrey’s Geraldine
grew up in Ireland (like Patricia, but she’ll not get
a passport with that fact either). Lord Strange

of Knocking is knocking on his prison wall, racist Morse
about growing up in white Britain with pure princes.
Surrey was like that, cursing new men and mere women.
You can see it in the way he traces the pedigree of Geraldine.

He found her at Hampton but lost her in Windsor.
Petrarchan petting! At the end of the poem he gives her away,
like a bad relative at a shot-gun wedding.
I wish he’d done something with this poem.

I wish I’d done something with my life, like jousting
at a tourney,

too throwaway

or receiving a blowjob from a man called Gerald. 



Direct Rule: Ghostly Geraldine

I know two women called Geraldine, both fun
to party with; both write poetry. Surrey’s Geraldine
grew up in Ireland (like Patricia, but she’ll not get
a passport with that fact either). Lord Strange of

Knocking is knocking on his prison wall, racist Morse
about growing up in white Britain with pure princes.
Surrey was like that, cursing new men and mere women.
You can see it in the way he traces the pedigree of Geraldine.

He found her at Hampton but lost her in Windsor.
Petrarchan petting! At the end of the poem he gives her away
like a bad relative at a shot-gun wedding. I wish he’d done
something with this poem. I wish I’d done something

with my life, like jousting at a tourney, or wearing the bays
as I overdub every bad poem with worse.




too throwaway (or blowaway!)

or receiving a blowjob from a man called Gerald. 

FINALLY?:




Direct Rule: Ghostly Geraldine

I know two women called Geraldine, both fun
to party with; both write poetry. Surrey’s Geraldine
grew up in Ireland (like Patricia, but she’ll not get
a passport with that fact either). Lord Strange of

Knockin is knocking on his prison wall, racist twaddle
about growing up in white Britain with pure princes.
Surrey was like that, cursing new men and mere women.
You can see it in the way he traces the pedigree of Geraldine.

He found her at Hampton but lost her in Windsor.
Petrarchan petting! At the end of the poem he gives her away
like a bad relative at a shot-gun wedding. I wish he’d done
something with this poem. I wish I’d done something

with my life, like jousting at a tourney, or wearing the bays
as I overdub every bad poem with worse.


NO: minor changes:



Direct Rule: Ghostly Geraldine and Others

I know two women called Geraldine, both fun
to party with; both write poetry. Surrey’s Geraldine
grew up in Ireland, like Patricia (but she’ll not get
a passport with that fact either). Lord Strange of

Knockin is knocking on his prison wall, racist twaddle
about growing up in white Britain with pure princes.
Surrey was like that, cursing new men and mere women.
You can see it in the way he traces the pedigree of Geraldine.

He found her at Hampton but lost her in Windsor.
Petrarchan petting! At the end of the poem he gives her away
like a bad relative at a shot-gun wedding. I wish he’d done
something with this poem. I wish I’d done something

with my life, like jousting at a tourney, or wearing the bays
as I overdub every bad poem for my lady with worse.