The Death Of Hamilard

Portending The Death Of Hamilard

Oh the industrious Hamilard
printing fliers for his folk:
“Santa Claus exists, and naysayers
ought get gift revoke!”

in mirror he doth rehearse
and cites apologetic verse:
“yay, fell the tree whence gifts are given,
pray tell what be the point of livin’?”

“For all the parents would need conspire,
and willingly become the liar,”

spews Hamilard to all who listen,
while high above, the treetops glisten

“and all at perfect cadence planta
gift to each recipi-anta
and fabricate a myth of Santa.
Could they? Would they? No! They canta!”

Bespectacled, his sidekick chimes,
Bold of voice and choice of rhymes:

“It must true. St. Nick, the giver
watches you, and may deliver.
Naughty and/or nice determines
the fate of all saints
and/or vermins.”

At last, when stalwart Egorian
noodling in Dorian,
Puts down his lute and hears the missive,
fearlessly debunks, dismissive.
the “evils,” on his tongue bespeak
that santa may be just a myth
and though it shelters 'oer the meek,
he carves myth down with logic’s scythe.

he points out every argumentum
established whether santa sent 'em
“gifts or gift-wrapped ignorance?”
his words shine with Egoriance.

Hamilard averse to knowing
waits until it’s cold and snowing,
and in a beige Delorian,
tails young Egorian.

With coterie of acolytes.
Hamilard slays our dissident,
who loses to fanatic blows
of frozen bludgeoned argument.

his blood, it flows, red on white,
and 'fore it’s covered by the storm,
etches in a Christmas light,
one savior’s famous uniform.

Now Hamilard stands proudly fat,
witness to this holy sign,
argumentum ad baseball bat,
ensconced in primal endorphyne.

And tho once dead, he pummels twice,
one for naughty, one for nice.
breathes deeply in the haughty spice
and then slips hard upon the ice

later takes a tepid bath
of epsom salt, but soon, or later,
while clamoring for wreath, or wrath,
he falls again, by an invader…

O, Hamilard, on xmas day,
I’ve come in Chimneyic descen’,
Hewn from hell, and hell to pay.
To usher in your story’s en’,

I, Brother of Egorian!

Bravo! Bravo!

O, Hamilard, your acolytes grieve
Taken from us, last Christmas eve…
But plotting in his sanctum a holy metric,
(to charm next Christmas’ rhetoric),
is the sidekick, whose name is Steve!

“Forget not Santa, dearest youth,
The lore bespeaks an anagogic truth!”

To his clerk, such lines are dictated,
with clenched fist; the skeptic hated.
And for one in particular he has waited
…The brother of Egorian!

–For Hamilard he will remember,
when calendar turns to next December.
And sips his lemonade.

Hamilard’s fliers he did not discard
And though their logic was en retard
For a bitter mission he keeps on guard.
Vengeance, for poor Hamilard!

And, to revive the Christmas split,
betwixt naughty and/or nice.
That misbehavior will not admit
but carries a heavy price.

O, Hamilard, I’ll be ready,
Though tis only July,
the plan goes steady,
for Egorian, gadfly

I, clerk of Steve!

Hahahahaha

First of all, the name Hamilard is hilarious. But so is the name Steve. Not sure why. Steve is a modern creation, it lacks roots. That’s why I find the name funny, along with the name Todd. I might be wrong about it, but I just never heard the name Steve or Todd in the three musketeers cartoon, or anything old timey.

Sorry for the digression there buddy.

So yeah, fine, nice job on the poem. It sounds like the same style, and it’s a continuation of the story. So you’ve decided somebody should plot the revenge against Egorian’s brother, to avenge the death of Hamilard. And you sat down and actually wrote it. Nice.

You’re an interesting guy Von Rivers. You always liked that poem, which makes me happy. You have good taste and you don’t suffer fools well, so praise from you means a lot, and homage is the sincerest form of flattery.

So what’s next? Are you expecting me to “keep it going?” Don’t hold your breath. My vote is to let what will now be known as the “Hamilard Universe” rest in peace with the Three Steves universe.

When the spirit moves me I will write about something I’m passionate about, but these days it’s usually about waiting till something makes me feel very sad and angry, meditating on what exactly is happening there, and then lay it out in a cathartic blitz of cocksure ranting so that a bunch of strangers here can read it and maybe argue back, to help me plug the cracks and move on.

I’m not in a creative mode, I’m trying to make money these days. Creativity is ultimately selfish. I feel I’m at a precipice now whereas up till now I want to be someone who is creative and can legally refer to himself as an artist without being seen by friends and family as a deluded douche, and I also, for some reason, have prized my ability to look like someone who fucks a lot. But the sad fact is, I don’t fuck much anymore, and I haven’t produced any actual art in a long time. So when I see your poem von rivers, it stings but also makes me happy.

My new goal is to be and look like a guy who has good ideas. A good idea can be as big as a business venture or a book topic, and as small as “hey let’s go to the park guys.” I’m going to start small.

What does a person who has good ideas look like? Is there a certain shirt I need for that? Pls let me know.

In the meantime, pls keep the art flowing on your end von rivers. Especially with all the war going on, we need all the gadfly stuff we can get.