The Black Prince (Satire)

It’s true I complain too much and loudly,
but even Emily Post had an unkind word or two;
while you… you say nada, nada, nada –
as if nothingness was a word for true love.

Maybe I’m wrong for hounding you, dog of my bone:
you prance around, pout and pounce;
yes, yes,
I know the truth, I’m an overbearing louse:

a slovenly god of trucks and motor oil,
a grim knight of beer and whiskey: of late, your spouse!

But what would you have me be?
Oh, forget it,
I know already:
you’d have me dressed in white,
a shiny knight with the midas touch,

a singing jester, or Fred Astaire –
dancing till Midnight;

you’d have me bare and prim,
mated to leather chains by Armani.

Well you can have your Prince in  fetish leathers now,
I’m through with this minstrelsy of slights and spites;
I’ll be the Black Prince of Shadows —a lover’s curse:
plunderer of far kingdoms, despair’s dark brother,
till you relent this silly game of tease —
kiss me quickly fool, before I fall down and beg you, too!

Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.


4 thoughts on “The Black Prince (Satire)

  1. “dog of my bone”

    Ha. What an image!

    Maybe nothingness is the word for love, in an age where human knowledge has so obviously outstripped the ability of language to convey what’s known. One feels there is a pressing need to do, to say–but what? Especially seeing so many fragments of one’s own dreams and musings strewn about in others–are there any corners of any inner mindscape not yet depicted a thousand times over in the outside world? It starts to feel crass to raise a hand only to say, “Yes, here I am: a few bars of a familiar tune, transmitting back at you once more.”

    Or perhaps that’s not so common a condition as I’d like to think. 🙂


    • True 🙂 yea, even my use of the triple nada is not my origin… but is truly an echo of Hemingway’s use of that same motif in one of his early novels 😉

      What’s funny is the master of influence Harold Bloom quoting old Samuel Johnson that the Originals were never truly original anyway… I remember as a young man the vogue of the new critics and earlier was source hunting… one soon realized that almost every thought, image, pattern, type, etc. had already been done over and over again. It was T.S. Eliot himself who used to say: the greatest poets are the greatest thieves, they just get away with it while bad poets are blatantly found out. 🙂

      I think the best poetry comes from a confrontation with a previous poem(s) … let’s face the facts… think of soap-operas: there are only so many emotions, we’ve got them catalogued in the old French anthropologist/structuralists in lists like encyclopedias… and the psychology in Freud/Lacan/Deleuze-Guattari will never be bested… after that one realizes that what makes one unique is having been found by poetry rather than being a poet… that’s what they used to call being ridden by the muse. To me the notion of inspiration and influence are all melded by notions of appropriation and transformation and defense… poetry is a defense against all that vast overgrown jungle of previous poets… we are all belated now… but to make it new is to confront that belatedness.

      After that is the music…we have to have music for our time, a rhythm, a measure, a beat… it’s in the ear, a listening… I read and reread Shakespeare the greatest poet of all but I don’t write like him or even imitate his ideas… it’s like a bell in Neruda’s poems… it echoes there in the distance, a sort of forlornness from a time when thought and meaning truly were whole… we aren’t, we’re fractured and splayed upon the earth… our music is of endings and beginnings, of turnings… we are the generations of terrible fortune, of a crossing into a new spiral or a devolution into stupidity… between the mind of winter as Steven’s calls it and the mind of Summer we seem to shift poles without touching spring or fall.


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