Amy Barlow Liberatore… stories of lost years, wild times, mental variety, faith, and lots of jazz

Tag Archives: Shakespeare

Forgive me, dear Toads, but I have dissected, line by line, Shakespeare’s “To be or not to be?” soliloquy and have thus bastardized the Bard in such fashion as to concoct complete nonsense on this, the anniversary of his birth, his death, and now his utter humiliation. And so, dear readers, we bring you our humble offering, which shall also be posted forthwith at Poets United.

Tubby or not Tubby; that is the question.
Whether ‘twas nobler in my mind to suffer
the stings and narrow minds of outrageous torturers
Or to shake my arms and see the blubber
and by supposing, to send them to the Y, to sleek—
No more, and by sleek to say we end
the fartbreak, and the thousand unnatural pocks
my butt was heir to. ‘Twas a consideration determined to be wished. To diet, to steep—
to steep—purchased two creams, ay, there’s the rub,
For in that steep of meth what schemes may come
When we have shuffled off to Buffalo for more,
Bust, give us pause. There’s no respect
for my anatomy of so long this life.
For who would bear the rips and tears of seams,
Th’ dresser’s wrong, the frowsy girl’s costumely
The bags of disguised lovehandles, the raw decay,
the insulin they’ll proffer, and the spurs
That patients merit from unsweetened cakes,
When she herself might her coitus make
With her vibratin’ “him”? Who would goutless bear,
to grunt and swear Richard Simmons’ life
Is that dread of aerobics after meth,
My undiscovered bounty, from fat hath born
No lipo rejects, drizzles the swill,
And shakes us farther, bear those chills we have
Than cry to others that we Nutraslim?
This consciousness makes cows of us all,
And this, the plaintive whew! of redistribution
Is stuck o’er with the frail past of night,
An enterprising great bitch who foments
With disregard their comments turn away
And lose the name of active. Soft, I’m now,
Get bare, I’ll feel ya! Wimp, in thy horizons
be all my skin remembered.

Yes, I was overweight and quite happily so for many years. But then my knees started to creak, so I ended up losing 50 pounds… with no help from Nutrislim or Richard Simmons, thank you very much.

And now, TO THE COMMENTS! Have at me, dear Bard worshipers! With a wink and a smile, The Unfair Amelia

Hamlet and Juliet in A Midsummer Twelfth Night’s Sonnet on Shakespeare’s Birthday
(with apologies to Will)

In my salad days, when I was green in judgment,
not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty,
I was a dish fit for the gods.

Now I’m in my prime, set up with a posh little Upper East Side co-op and a hefty trust fund from Daddy… plus a live-in honey who’s fast losing his sweetness. Nothing in his life becomes him, and nothing will come of nothing.

He awoke, rounded with a little sleep. “Ay, me…”

“I have not slept one wink,” I bitched, rubbing my sore bottom. “What a piece of work is man! Do you think I am easier played on than a pipe?”

He leapt from the bed. “That is should come to this! Why, only last night you cried, A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!

“True it is,” I countered, “that we have seen better days. Yet brevity is the soul of conscience, and the” (wince) “parting was such sweet sorrow.”

He was pi-i-i-issed. “Tempt not a desperate man, for delays make dangerous ends.”

(Now I’m thinking, “MY end got all the ‘danger’ last night… He hath eaten me out of house and home, and he thinks too much, with a lean and hungry look. There’s daggers in men’s smiles, and… is this a dagger I see before me?”)

I pointed to the door. “Out, damned Snot! Out, I say! Men of few words are the best men, and your tale is told by an idiot.”

“The course of love never did run smooth,” he stammered. “Shall we meet again?”

(Trying to live down the riddle… Q: ‘What do you call a bass player without a girlfriend?’ A: ‘Homeless.’)

He continued, “Don’t forget, dearest, we have a palimony agreement. You’ll pay a great deal too dear,” he grinned, “for what’s been given freely.”

“The game is up.” I stamped my little bare foot and caught a splinter. “This is the worst!”

He tried to rustle up tears as he packed. “There words are razors to my wounded heart. I will wear my heart upon my sleeve for Daws to pick at.”

(I knew that has-been “Mork and Mindy” chick Pamela Daws was after him, ever since the gig at the China Club.)

“In my mind’s eye,” I said, thinking of the money I’d have to pay this jerk, “shall I compare thee to the dogs of war? A borrower with a dull edge? The world is grown so bad, the fool doth think he is wise.”

I escorted him to the door. He shambled out, his bass hanging on his back like a monkey. Then, turning back to me, he whimpered, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s-” SLAM!

Peace at last. “I like this place, and willingly would waste my time in it.” Then, cutting the first of many checks I’d have to pay my new ex, I grumbled, “But first… let’s kill all the lawyers.”

© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

It’s the Bard’s birthday! He’d be three days older than water today.  This is also (and this is so tragically Shakespearean) the anniversary of his death, so he deserves something special.   Imaginary Garden With Real Toads asked us to have our way with him (well, with his writing, anyway), but I gathered so many snippets from so many plays and sonnets, if I tried to do citations, they would run longer than the piece itself. I leave it to you, my oh-so-savvy readers, to separate the Will from the chaff.  This will also be posted to dverse Open Mic Night.

NaPoWriMo #23 and still ticking! This form, which employs lines from other writer(s) re-ordered to create a new poem, is called something or other, but dang, I can’t remember. Paging Viv!! Peace, Amy