Richard Pearse

Sonnet 130: Perfervid Vermin

Ma's mattresses are nothing like Sonny’s.
Corrals of fat mares ring his list, unread.
Is nowhere where the best is getting done?
If heirs were widows, weirdos groove ahead.

Eyes hover over damages realized,
But no switched rudeness can be seen in check.
And some perfervid rectors, more desired
Than beachgoers’ vermin, in the breaches break.

Aloof from harvesting, the sparkling news
That muses on the health of placid Sonny
Asks only of a goddess for her beaux.
Her muscles’ whim can fell a grainary.

And yesterday believes thin rarities
Can sheepishly deny each one of these. 

Sonnet 18: Comparison Shopping

Shall I compute you to a sump pump’s data?
You’re more livid, more of a temp, a rut.
Ruffled winos dare shatter the dartboards that matter,
And some, unleashed on the heath, short out a hot date.

Sumos in twos? Hottentots? Oh son of Sonny, shake!
Your offers of golems complicate, then damn;
And every fire from your fur can seem defunct—
Bye-bye chancery!–or natives’ corpses, once untamed.

But you, you’re atavistic, summa cum laude, a fad;
no loose papoose, you. That fare you owe,
no shill a debt might break. Winded? Should
You whine: “that infernal limo’s not on time,” I groan.

So long. Amen. Can’t breed, but I can seize . . . ?
So long. Thinking gives leave to theorize.