Sunday, December 26, 2010

A Solstice Carol By Angela Caperton

Here's a wonderful holiday treat from the always-wonderful Angela Caperton - author of the extra-wonderful Darkness & Delight.

“Please, Miss Scrooge, I’d like to leave.
You know tonight is Solstice eve.
My wife and I have a dinner date,
Then she and I will …conjugate.”
“Go on, Cratchit, if must needs,
Off to do your Solstice deeds.”
And Emma Scrooge turned away
While young Bob went on his way.
The season’s profit, full and green,
Perhaps the best she’d ever seen,
But someone has to do the work
That Cratchit and his ilk will shirk.
While fools frolicked ‘round their trees
And took their Christmas eggnog ease,
She’d calculate the golden till
Disdainful of the season’s thrill.

Miss Emma S. was fair of face,
And had the beauty of a Grace,
But not one lover had she known
And always had she slept alone.
Now as she added up her sum,
She heard a rhythmic, playful hum,
And looked up from her desk to spy
A dreadlocked ghost with bloodshot eye.
She gasped and scrambled for her gun.
“Na worry, mon, I’m here for fun.
I’m tellin’ you an’ get dis right,
Wi gwaan hab a bashment night.”
She guessed whose ghost this must be, sure,
But why on earth had he come to her?
He spoke no more but took her wrist,
And the room dissolved in ganja mist.

Then from the smoke, a grove took form,
Midwinter, yes, but still quite warm.
A Roman man, in tunic gay
Greeted her with a bright “Ave.“
She saw by his paraphernalia
He celebrated Saturnalia.
The hat he wore was everyman’s;
As he probed her with his Roman hands.
She realized that she was nude,
And he, engorged with rectitude,
Ensured the rebirth of the sun
By thrusting deep beneath her bum.

Senses shattered, mind a’reeling,
Overwhelmed with intense feeling,
Scattered wide the bright conundrum,
She woke anew in jolly London.
A handsome man in waistcoat bright,
Greeted her with pure delight,
And as her breath and heartbeat quickens
She recognized old Charles Dickens!
Or at least his phantom, stout of  form,
With eyes that pledged a pleasant storm,
And a happy smile, did what he may,
Took her in a Victorian way.
Full of spritely Christmas cheer,
He put his hands beneath her rear,
And raised her up to meet his pen
To write a tale with a happy end.

Breathless with the Yuletide coming,
Serenade by Rasta humming,
Traversed mists of chronal suture,
Into an unimagined future.
Nigh weightless on a lunarscape,
Wearing but a silver cape,
Awaited by a  moon-bred lass,
Full of breast and round of ass.
“I greet you, woman of the past,
Of this night’s lovers, I’m the last.
Let me show you the sweet way
That we in lowest grav can play.”
Then the sportive lunar maid
Bent to the cleft where bliss is made,
 And with her tongue and fingers free
Licked and flicked Em’s zero G.

All across the plain of years,
Miss Scrooge’s cries rang Yuletide cheers,
And soon she fell in motion slow
Back to her time in afterglow,
Ope’d her eyes, and knew she’d dreamt,
Smelled the fading trace of hemp,
Heard a distant reggae tune,
Looked out upon the fulsome moon.
And knew that she’d been granted bliss
To celebrate the winter’s kiss,
To learn the songs that pleasures bring,
And out of winter birth the spring.

For each is given but one life
And much of it is woe and strife,
So seize the chance for pleasure bright
Upon the longest winter’s night.
And in the days that lay ahead
Miss Scrooge grew fond of giving head.
The ghosts before her and behind
Were often on her randy mind.
And all who knew her oft did say,
How much she’d changed that Solstice day,
Reborn, inspired, and fond of fun,
Her life renewed, just like the sun.

No comments:

Post a Comment