The Golem of Tipperary

With a shake of the fright wig at HerSubstanceDestroys

Feverish outlaws unbound from occasion
Sestinas so often grow into monsters
Hungry for a chance to bare their claws
Six-tentacled beasts bereft of intent
Accursed, recursive, a strain on the eyes
Clamoring wildly to claim the last place

Regret never learned how to dance in the first place
Other than a false jig for fun on occasion
A dumb show soliloquy for nobody's eyes
As string melodies can stir slothful monsters
A pile of ashes may swell with harmonic intent
Built into something that bellows and gnashes and claws

An insistent desert with its sandy claws
Buries gifts sworn to a different place
In Tipperary too long, too fortunate, too intent
Too ready with reasons to mark an occasion
Too well accustomed to dressing as monsters
In tails and wings and her rust-colored eyes

A spelunker could find herself lost in those eyes
Deaf to the skittering of dusty claws
Blind to the sapphires, the muck, and the monsters
The rocky path leads down to a fearsome place
Past the bones of woeful rogues who swallowed the same occasion
Before they could divulge their true intent

They close in mutely, somber and intent
Don't put a word in their mouths, don't incite their eyes
The book of days says this is the ideal occasion
To name them and rank them and varnish their claws
Those costume party fears, so tricky to place
Without masks, they'd hardly be monsters

It's a mistake to generalize monsters
Monsters of rock, monsters of roaring intent
If you only mean to take them home and find them a hiding place
Or to avoid looking into their terrifying yellow eyes
To eschew the grasp of their horny, tortoise-shell claws
Too often they've already anticipated the occasion

Save a quiet occasion to lay traps for monsters
Though love claws tiny cities into flecks of intent
And misfortune eyes every mourner who visits the place

The End

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