Imprecation, Yet Another, For "Little Marty"

I shall always cherish my screen name, Starward,

as I (and at least one other) believe that Christ

Himself bestowed it upon me across a sequence of

events which I need not describe here,

certainly not to be described to the likes of you---

Insinuator, Imitator.

But, among my many reasons to despise you,

your appellation shares letters with mine---a

situation I find almost intolerable.  I shall

hate and despise you until my final breath, a

failing on my part (no, not of the Gospel nor the

grandeur of the Orthodox Faith; but solely on my part

while I am yet in this corrupt flesh and broken world).

You were proud of the date rape that drove Lady

Flowerchild from our campus:  this beautiful girl,

who militantly disliked shoes (except when weather or

surfaces were not cooperative);

whose collection of socks---all solid colors and their

pastel variants---seemed inexhaustible; but that was

not enough for you.  And then you wrote about it in

that derivative, imitative, style you insisted must be

taken as Poetry.  You wrote about it again and again,

because, as you explained, you had something to

say and every right to say it; and that, if nothing else,

disqualified you from the title Poet.  Poetry is not

democracy, it is meritocracy---a merit, I am thankful to

say, that you never achieved, at least on the internet.


What you did to Lady Flowerchild . . .


I shall hate and despise you until my final breath . . .


Starward

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