Poyem

Some opening verses.

Omen of omnishambles, sleet-darkened skies,
all London under grey precipitation.
Some Spring we’re having, far from seasonal:
the seasons have abandoned their procession,
dive now for cover under sudden downpour.
Tomorrow’s sun will sizzle-dry these same
sodden pavements.

Informal: “a situation of total disorder”.
The neologism is good to have in hand.
Some wind up soused in mysticism, full of ecstasy
and fire, farraginously self-misled.
Some might suppose the nation well-ensorcelled,
dazzled by gleam in deathless mad Rasputin’s
wondrous side-eye.

No salvage for those savaged by feral media
claim slightly-mauled, frontrunning comeback tour.
Bellum omnium contra omnes has moments
of breathless camaraderie, like bloodsport
suspended for celebrity cameo,
recaptioned image macro drawing egregious
micropayments.

I cannot say I saw the point of Dryden
at nineteen. This likewise may elude you.
In which case let it go. It may come anon.
Dryden is funnier, or alleged to be.
Don’t judge me by my knock-kneed prosody:
everyone has their off-day, or decade, or
ageless aeon.