Sonnet L’Abbé


from Sonnet’s Shakespeare


No thief rooms in this estate. Rogues do not imitate moneyed judges. Men top lucky land, yes, to meet their banks’ itch. Caves strong on mine eyes. About north: too often, shallow fogs brood ore. Villains fuck off, playing the blues-song-funded earth. Sore seas moan squalls. A city north can inform tunnels to sobriety; inform sinuses, testes, gall points. Ingots to ore, aching histories: chunnels, derricks, mainland windmotors play with prime rates. Finances aired forfeit whoosh and fall gone. Wells buy soft power, edit cutthroat indian heart-versions of indian butchery, form something even yesmen yack no to when led. Forge quick derivative land cons, instant startups. In the mire, ads touch hearts, fast and ruthless, bland beams of duty shamelessly out to get her thrift, her venal swiffery, her home apathy. Selling forts costs ore that you won. Your lodestones convince ferromagnetic ores’ pulse so forth; eerily, this improves gnosis of thick agates. A smithy, friend. Schist crust, his land bearing duty’s sodom. Homeland, sedate.


Woe hennaed into curls on skin, dermal tints ever your faith tainting, the hate green now fleshes old. Skin perils affect station: about face, lieutenant. Let me foment that wrath wish, bugle my red stag representation, my claret honour besought. Blunt song howls when representation threats, tars us insubordinate, creates fluencies of common undescent. Where can I opera grace, forgive the hate mentalled so plainly into skin? Creamy rosed cheeks redden at my kind, unchecked eventing. Bury the selfish blame, ask they, value nothing that either yokes truth or fuels a pathetic might. Describe a season of id weather, of other ire, born of a vernal state. Mouth off memory and the synthetic tolerance you benefit of must hiss. Inconvenient assistants, staying visible! Curtsy to alumni ostriching from your unfathomable force of ignominy, your unsightly wrath. Bereaved, I was hateful, timorous, leaden, celibate: throwing up the declassé identity, touching angels you forbade, any way to fight your threat of sullen indifference and denial. Light and pallor, inward whiteness hating men’s formal overdogging, follows you always. Henna stains, like saffron, milky colour rinsed with lemongrass. Fix that dye, mourn that bled hew.


Butch, witch, her left orientation doesn’t bother your amnesia. Ghosts linger – of waxy maidens who keep wearing jupes, of wonton thighs, bloody martyrs – and yet sentiment mans girded forts. If yellowy documents raise hellfire, deny our indecency, say we did the monster dance. Some of our feblesse doth man up. Many barren rhymes annoy we upstanding youth. Money other institutions, poor fathers – apply his yours. Sandman your main damsel. Angular damsel, isn’t she? Eyelet. Sunset. Owing to hive mind are fortunes. Our sole wish was you held by swear-you. Live tweeting flows rivers mulch likes over thank-yous. Rupiahs are interred in counterfeit sons holding pure gold brothel. Wines softly wife that. Olive luciferean pairings which – oath. Histrionic message, pens councillor, stormy, push Philippean nexes into heroic ninja war; draw North. Northward, southward, all fair camp. Namaste, kisses your live-in, young roseleaf. Wine yesses softly, amen. Together wives awaken, away, away! Sour self, keep saying our selvage, fasten up all ill. Sandman your music to live, draw North, lullaby your own sweetness killed.


Parliament’s a madhouse; October gunfire reports. Shots heard in Ottawa ricochet worldwide. We must be terror-watching always, the government thugs hold. Our young soldier lived and died. We called our loved ones: –are you ok? –We’re fine. Shots at the shopping mall. The shots, then blood, then shots. What do we do with government workers? One man is inside. What is this blackout? The cry for help by somebody native-born. A certain lone individual. Our two Rouleau drove himself to hate. –Are you inside? Bullets are held in one respect. Not enough rough in our lives creates a separation, enables soldier-spite, which, though it alters national capital love, solidifies soldiers. The effect of a story ricochets worldwide. Another possibility is eliminated. Blind angles. –Where are they now? Murmurs of underground malcontents. This narrative isn’t delivering right. If this man is swarthy, find out every damn foreignness, backbenchers howl. The edge of sanity is here. Or in the legislative assembly. Zehaf-Bibeau’s wailed guilt should do what, exactly? The bitter shame. True north, cold and unwelcoming. The public kindness shown our defaced mosques and uniforms. Angles, sightlines. – Where are you? A shot taken by that honourable friend. Terrorism, thy name is not Bourque. Reporters don’t know what shot. Peril all over the television. The usual channels report as though obeying something. Meanwhile, some rage-blind atheist checks officially sanctioned goods through the airport.

Sonnet L’Abbé, Ph.D. is a Canadian poet and literary critic.

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