Clockwise Cat Strikes Back

V
Goliath became a fighter.
Goliath, he got mean.
Goliath built an Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines.
Goliath built the biggest god-damned war-making machine.
Goliath held the greatest force the Earth had ever seen.
Goliath, the aggressor,
Goliath, the evil scheme,
Goliath, the lone wolf and pre-emptive violence meme,
Goliath, the peacekeeper,
Goliath, The Scream,
Goliath, the empire,
Goliath, the theme,
Goliath of the A-bomb, the H-bomb and the nuke,
Goliath, the mad, MAD momentary fluke,
Goliath of the sucker-punch,
Goliath, the old one-two,
Goliath with the uppercut,
Goliath, black&blue,
Goliath landed many blows before the bell’s appeal,
Goliath of the crystal jaw and the naked, tender heel.
VI
Goliath built a theme park and his darkest heart’s display.
Goliath built his swan song down on Old Man Castro’s bay.
Goliath took his big stick out and waved it toward the fray.
Goliath shouted “Fuck you!” from Strawberry Fields 1 of play.
Goliath sent his soldiers and his doctors of despair.
Goliath sent his minions in to run the brutal fair.
Goliath sent them patrons too, to do with as they dared.
Goliath grinned and injured men, as Old Man Castro stared.
Goliath built drowning booths, forced-feeding stands and zoos
of snarling German shepherds and their snarling handlers too.
Goliath sent in madhouse owls to peck&peck&peck until they knew
how many licks it takes to get to the center of the truth.
Goliath built TortureLand where the dying man could hear
the screams of all the patrons as they answered for his fear.
Author bio: Brad Nolen is a writer and founding member of the Lizella Independent
Poets Society, the finest bunch of dilettantes and semi-professional osculators this side of
Hopewell Church Road. Baptized in the muddy trickle known as Echeconnee Creek and
bestowed with the flour-sack tongue of a down-home eschatologist, Brad writes with a
whimsical defiance, supplanting convention with a novelty so familiar that he seems to be
writing your very own thoughts as you think ‘em, and all you can think is ”The end is
Nehi!” He can usually be found sitting cross-legged atop a red, clay mound with a dusty
copy of The Threepenny Opera or shoulder-deep in the Ocmulgee River balancing a
guilty grin and a libation.