So what shall we, in this strange topsy winter, say?
That froze in these vortices Dispatches still doth increase day by day?

Aye, the days of Trump and PoFo have grown dark and cold.
But the heart of resistance, fellow combatants, is deep & old.

Daily by the banked and hidden fire,
we hum The Internationale & hone swords of satire

knowing only laughter in riotous flower
can overturn stupid pretensions of power.

We shall not cower nor shall we retire,
at least until this year’s about to expire.

But do not, dear readers, ever sorrow.
For the young will succeed — and exceed — us tomorrow.

We know sure as the sun doth daily rise
that new heroes of poesy will soar to bright highs

& in their combat to the death (to speak metaphorical)
shall both suffer some blows but surge anarchological:

How’s it going, lapdogs to the stinky Po(o) Institutions?
Poetic guerrillas shall come wield thy inevitable dissolution.

So thank you, beloved, faithful Dispatches readers.
You can’t know how much you please these tired, old geezers …

 

Please enjoy this Winter 2019 cumulative release of all our posts since September along with a big load of new work, the biggest yet, for Dispatches. The Table of Contents, alone, as you will see, is worthy of its own Table of Contents. And that’s with us holding back a whole bunch of gold to eke out, luminous drop by drop, over the next four fortnights, or so.

Send us your wares, send us your desires. Send us your fears and your hopes, your counsels and ripostes. Send us weird stuff. And don’t forget to send a question to the Tarot guy. He is waiting.

Dispatches from the Poetry Wars

Dispatches from the Poetry Wars — here the smoke of the rubber that meets the road smells like an unknown and extinction-doomed flower.

P.S. And make sure you watch Roma. What a great movie, even if it wins the Oscars. Sometimes even they get it right.