A blatant Stare

whither to wear, a blatant stare

a gentleman of ill repute,

comes swaggering into the room

all bristling with dispute,

and announces, with swarthy flair

his head a house of silver hair

that now tis the time for occult entertain

the summoning of creatures fair and vain

the call of banshee, the cry of sprite

the darkened assembly of waiting night.

He looks to left, he whips to right

the waiting guests oercome by fright

the menfolk staring with outraged will

the ladies afaint and taken ill

but never a word spoken in defiance,

for this was an age of astral science,

and all there were in secret curious

about this art so labelled spurious.

The craft of Yeats on Marijuana

sweeping through the Cape Town streets

an unseemly host of clandestine treats.

And thus, the scene was set

for an organic opera of Narcissus’ pet

this boy, this creature of Eldritch power

with a voice resembling a secret flower

blossoming in days bewitching hour,

soothing and lulling their minds to sleep

into Mesmer’s depthless keep

and there, in a flash, were all things calm

the silver sleep of dreams their balm

and this poet of ill repute, he smiled

his eyes now flashing and his hair so wild

as he went about, from guest to guest

a fob watch from the young sirs breast

a diamond necklace from about her chest

any manner of high, worth its weight

in gold, sold, a tricksters trade

that when they awaken to dawns sweet light

there’s not a single gem in sight!