WEBSITE OF CLARKE EMERVANE

THE MELLIFLOCCULATOR

from Heart of Love


As sun-starts on a silver brook,
as gilded pages of a book -
The Melliflocculator! - look!
(what handiwork it must have took!)
It reared enormous as a bear
forged from his kitchen sink and chair
(let readers note: he was the mayor);
and if you ask in Downtown Claire
(just downtown of South Uptown square),
the agéd yet remember there
and murmur, leaning on the crook,
‘he could do anything but cook,’
and offer up a silent prayer.

It was the middle month, and we
had found ourselves so silently
conversing each; the distant stars
were none so cold. The hour of Mars
lurched over every home, and eyes
droned in the black eternal skies
to guard the cripple and the meek,
heir motors mute, their wingspan sleek.
“We merely asked for land and bread;
a wage, four walls, perhaps a bed.”
His accent died; the only sound
rejoinder came from underground -
a lonely ant far from his den
found him among the sons of men;
abundant far past labor's rate
clutched at titanic fare – the bait.
He said, “let us alone, not here
we may resume; the watchers near.”
As swift to come, as then to fly
departed we; and wandering I
removed, I mused upon the strand,
and taking seashells in the hand
flung them across the darkling sea,
singing, “O, what shall be shall be.”

The moon arose. I wandered home;
repaired unto my memory-foam;
I watched the twinkling stars aloof,
and then remarked, “WHERE IS THE ROOF?”
The stars! the stars! they poured like rain,
and horror pulsed in heart and vein;
in vein and heart the motto straight
returned to memory: THE STATE!
And as life’s curtain fell that day,
I eyed the drones, and last did say,
“The blessed dead at least are free
from interest at .03.”

Angelic whispers filled my head.
I said, “I’m floating. Yes, I’m dead.”
The voice replied, “ye micht hae been,
yer aye been goupin' at th' screen!”
His hair was wild, he mocked and raved,
his leftmost lid and brow were shaved;
he swept from heaven, as a crib,
the armies of Sennacherib;
his lamps gleamed with an ancient fire
so that I fell, and called him sire;
I stuttered, "thank you - who you be?"
He said, "they ca' me Monarchy.
Ye haver, loon, now wheesht, they by!
Ye dinnae be so glaikit, aye?”
I gave him thanks. “I must repair.”
His eyebrows knit in wild despair.
“Ye'd nae come sloch some tea?” he cried.
I went with him - at least I tried.

As like the eremites of lore
methinks this mighty soul did soar
by brick unhindered, and by door -
and all the rest was two-by-four.
Amid the twining cypress trees
this hermit good - Diogenes -
long stirred the embers, and again
he spoke. I merely said “Amen.”
Whate’er the stoic spirits be,
had they not tented near? And he
now where the fire blazed, began
to muse upon the state of man.
There fell a silence dreadful, deep
as like the woodland in her sleep;
all music stilled but save the lyre
whose harpist plucked with hands of fire.
I stood; I sat; the fire roared;
I watched until I was quite bored,
as perturbation gnawed my bones,
the battery died on both my phones;
the quietude was far too queer,
dispassionate beyond career!
I cried, “what shall the harvest be?”
He said, “’tis ca’ Tranquility.”

And it was forged from flaming steel,
and birthed like the clockwork from its wheel,
engraved with patterns as a keel
all while he ate a packet meal.
I stood a-gasping as it rose
reticulate with garden hose,
titanic more than any prose
embodying those Indic snows
which rush from most tremendous height
untraceable, and gilt with light
and fill the advers'ry with fright
as visions of immortal sprite!
Pneumatic hammers, and a key
played on some broken ivory
rendition of “The Bumblebee”
while the machine with EMP
roared in tumultuous fit of sound
like as a broken clock when wound,
or someone's tone-deaf mastiff hound,
so with a gypsy rag was crowned
mechanotron-from-elevator -
behold: The Melliflocculator!
He said, “m'lad, come save th' day!”
I said “I think - I think I'll stay.”

All clockwork loosed its springs as due,
he stooped, and gave to me some rue,
then as a beam of lightning flew
out where the fated conflict grew!
The mesmer of the flashing seas
could never match such EMPs
that swelled like flocculating snow
about his midmost, and there so
arrayed themselves and milled aright
as lightning-beetles in the night;
or as the distaff in its form
he held the fledgling thunderstorm!
A thousand spirits filled the sky,
I watched with stupor in the eye;
this great apocalyptic see,
twilight of man's technology!
As streaking comets silent fall,
so then the drones at beck and call
lay prostrate with a thunderclap,
as did my bubble-popping app.
His eye then flashed over to Claire.
I mused, “what ever will he there?”
So sparkling traipsed the great machine
where silicon and man convene.
His soul, is told, as David hight
Goliath slew, so filled with spite
for the advancing of their line,
so he the technophilistine
had immolated at a glance;
and as the melody does dance
of the beloved ice-cream van,
so did the keyboard of this man!

So sudden waxed this jubilee
on which the sons of Claire were free
from telemarketers who lied,
because the cable-lines were fried!
The internet writhed as in labor,
they had to go and ask a neighbor!
Death's midnight fell on every screen
as they awoke, as from a dream
with new delights and fancies born,
crowned with the tender light of morn.
They saw there were such things as trees
and endless gleaming, sparkling seas
that even run without substation!
They asked, “is this a simulation?”
Alas, there was no circuit-board
upon the oak-tree of the Lord,
and shapely tresses as of Helen
were plugged into a watermelon!
They late were asking of some peas,
“whose mind could now give birth to these?”

There is a place, the town of Claire
(just downtown of South Uptown there)
where lives a man with silver hair
(but not on his left brow - don't stare)
whose name is forged in legend there
where children seize the golden air
of nature's playfulness and care,
and aunts who knit upon the chair
will call the local cab - a mare -
while yelping hounds will chase the hare
into the fiery beaming glare
of the late sun - and if you dare,
the waterwheel could use some care -
and would you help me carve this chair?
But scorn him not – no, pass him ne'er -
his name is - well, he is the mayor.






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