I've got this sucker locked up.

I live a life
of abject adjectives
surrounded by
precarious prepositions
placed just so

very meta. very bad. Good job.

Sheeit!

It's like I'm standing in line in 7th grade gym and the coach just had the one kid with muscle definition climb the rope and touch the beam.

Now the rest of us are staring at each other thinking "No f'ing way."

Suffering alone, forgotten
In a raging hell of concrete and steel
Clad in shameful orange and holding Korans
Whose clinging moisture bears witness to the abuse perpetrated by the infidel
How long must they weep...how long must their souls cry out before we, their brothers and sisters,
Speak truth to power
And set them free
For, without our love,
They might freeze to death

By the way, Ace. The pretentiousness factor of this post would increase dramatically if you called this a "Poetry Slam"

Within the pits where the lymphy stream flourishes
'Neath unshaven arms, twixt unshaven thighs and--O glory!--ilium
(Not that Ilium of which Yeats and Shakespeare penned beauteous epistles but launcher of a thousand vessels ne'ertheless)
The sweet mystery of life aborns and crawls upward to suckle of yon glorious paps.
I am woman! Hear my cervix roar!
Seeker of my earth mother Gaia
To be her Britomart against Ares' cruel spears:
Global warming, Xtians, and yea, smokers.

Pocahontas is my sister, and we shall break the fascist patriarchy with all the colors of our wind.

Bless my funknozzle
With your welcoming nethers
O ye comely lass
For like Mjollnir
(The Mighty Hammer of Thor)
Does it inspire fear and awe
And respect and fascination
Yet if you must mock me
Please do so after and not before
Thank you
And bless you
And please let me do it again

Gaylord,

I think that poem, along with your name, pretty much nails Criterion 6.

Monty:

Loose shit. This is a BAD Poetry Slam! Your poem fucking ROCKED, dude!

A pretty face says hello with a smile,
forever changing the meaning of happiness.
A pretty face says goodbye with a tear,
forever changing the meaning of sorrow.
I am condemned to love
the architect of hell.



Sad, ain't it?

Weird beard trio
One post below
Why they are there
Only Ace can know

I'm still wiping away tears from Monty's dick-poem.

It really spoke to me.

mother peace your grief cries out to me
and makes me
want
to cry with you

condemned to a ditch in the heart of hickland
screaming to the powers that be and
finding no satis-faction
for your rage

you are the spark and we are but kindling
waiting to burn with holy fire
against the powers of the age

cry
cry
cry

and give us hope

Lauraw and bbeck
Oh I have such thoughts

Leather bustiers and shoes
With skyscraper heels
Lace teddies silk ribbons
Satin hearts sewn upon
Garter belts

Oh I have such thoughts

Wesson oil
Marshmallow creme
A Twister board and Valu-Rite
Pull up a groove
And let's get fabulous

Oh...

...I have such thoughts

Crap, Monty. Stop writing good poems!

Ace is going to have to create a special category for your stuff if you keep this up.

I saw my freedom slip away today.
The man on television shared the news
that choice was not a right, but privilege.
Be watchful, Murcan mothers, lest there some
parade of ghosts file through a haunted womb!
You see, folks, it takes resources to fund
a million exorcisms every year;
that money's earmarked to Support Our Troops.
Therefore, we'll nip the hauntings in the bud
by implementing No Child Left Unborn
(unless, of course, we know that something's wrong:
the ultrasound shows pigment, or a lisp --
see, we can make humane exceptions too --
but by and large the Volk must e'er increase).

ok now comes the hard part
staying focused
as they spin spin spin

criminal karl rove
has been up late
be prepared
they are very very very
good at this

now we r tested

there was horror
it was real
we r witnesses

they will now blame
the woman
and the black guy

the polls are not real
close your eyes
listen to ur heart

our troops
r away from us
fighting other poor people
unable to save their own families
sent there by well planned LIES
to benefit the oil baron bush family

they cannot change the facts
the horror continues
for millions

IN THE USA

The Powers of Love

Tall and rangy
bad skin but an ass like a swimmer
Powers Boothe makes my pants tighten
majestically

My turgid throbbing Choad Warrior
purple'd o'er with pulsating urgency
rises to salute The Colonel
smartly

Why doesn't Powers Boothe get more work?
Or less work, maybe
Because then he'd do softcore for Cinemax
like Eric Roberts, or James Remar

O Colonel! My Colonel!
Lead me against the combined Russian/Cuban forces
If they come searching for you
hide in my bunkhole

Together we can fight like brothers
Paris and Hector
you'd be Hector, because I'm a bit of a homo
Brad Pitt's fuckin' hot too

Release me from the denim cage
that strains to contain my o'erflowing love
I don't know how much longer I can last
ehhh, fuck it, I just finished. WOLVERINES!

oh why, did you
make them simulate anal sex?

oh why, did you
line them up in pyramids?

humiliation licks the wounds
of stolen pride

the man. the man.
their blood. for oil.

Fuck.

I tear my heart open, I sow myself shut
My weakness is that I care too much
My scars remind me that the past is real
I tear my heart open just to feel

-- Papa Roach

AN ODE TO MY RASH

With a Promethean itch it presented itself
A firelike burning under my arm
A bright red weal of shame
An armpit full of rash

Or is it prickly-heat?
I cannot say;
Only that it resists all balms,
All ointments, all salves, all powders.
It is a rash for the ages,
A rash of the Apocalypse,
An itchy burning reminder
That we are flesh and flesh is mortified.

For in this rash is grief and sorrow
And let us not forget B.O.
(for deodorant is too painful).
This rash leaves me a pariah in my own land.
A pitable figure, scratching subversively
lest I be seen and mocked.
A bearer of armpit stink
Shunned and hated
And barred from elevators.

By this rash I am tormented and humbled.
By this rash I am shamed and abased.

Armpit rash, depart! For I am in agony
and have run out of salve.

Cry

i am i
i, only i am
i am as only i am
what i must be

all induhviduals
all one, 10,000 strong
speaking truth to power
what we must be

Sheehan!

i/we cry out

Sheehan!

cry for your loss

Sheehan!

cry for your courage

you are you
you, only you
you are as you are
what you have become

we are you
i, and you, us
speaking truth to power
what we must do

Sheehan!

i/we cry out

Sheehan!

cry for your loss

Sheehan!

cry for your victory

If they come searching for you hide in my bunkhole

Was that supposed to be "bunghole?"

Men crashing into men and all society is forgotten
In the mad rush of testosterone
Sliding effortlessly across a frozen plain
Hipcheck, backcheck, butt-ending
Two on one
Hockey is pretty fucking gay.

Straw
Ace loves his strawmen
Not like a fucking homo!
Like Viking strawman!

Slightly OT, but couldn't resist....

There once was a man named Dan,
Who read news from fantasy land,
He said, "Fake but True!"
The Blogs said, "Screw You!"
Then his career went to the can.

"Youth"

I fear that time
with all it's malevolent intentions
will, like a thief, rob us of our nobler inventions:
our purpose, our causes and our innocence.

For who, in their autumnal years,
as their leaves turn a golden hue,
will challenge those with a bigoted view
residing in the public consciousness?

And when winter comes a-falling,
be it nuclear or equinox,
the soul finds itself a paradox:
too warm for the grave but too cold to be handcuffed to a fence.

Which leaves not but spring and summer
for us to ask the question of man so frail
"Who among us will save the whales?"
as extinction means no second chance.

So waste not you early days!
Nay, make them count while you are in bloom.
For a life misspent is like a bride without a groom
Perfectly viable, until you need a partner for the dance.

MY WEENER

My weener is a wundruss thing
I think it bears repeeting
Each morning brite
It stands up strate
And reely takes a beating!

Oooh, Jack! Rhyme, meter, melancholia, topicality, dreck; I think you've found your muse!

Some words are funny
Like pickle and fart and turd.
Some funny things aren't funny
like killer clowns and Rosie O.
Belching is funny, barfing is not
Unless it's your friend
Who drank too much
In which case it is
Unless he barfed on your rug
In which case it's not
Some cars are funny
like Pintos and Gremlins
But most cars aren't funny
Some politicians are funny
(although unintentionally so)
like Dennis Kucinich
Booger is a funny word
but picking your nose is gross
But a poem about funny things
And unfunny things
Just doesn't work

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Uhm chickpea...

Was that supposed to be "bunghole?"

Think of it--not just a bunghole, but a bunkhole--a bunker that offers snug protection from the angry, dangerous world.

Back to Babylon

Accept and forget difference or desire that separates and leaves us longing or repelled. Why briefly return to play in broken places, to mock the ground, to collect infant shards, coins, fossils, or the familiar empty canisters and casings that glint from poisoned roots in the blackened dust? We make bad ghosts, and are last to know or believe we too will fade, just as our acrid smoke and those strange flakes of skin and strands of hair will, into largely undocumented extinction. Lie down, lie down; sleep is the best thing for being awake. Do as we've always been told and done, no backward glances or second thoughts, leaving sad markers buried in the sand. Sleep now, dream of children with their heads still on, of grandmothers unburdening clotheslines at twilight, of full kettles slow-ticking over twig embers. Ignore boneless, nameless victims that venture out on bitter gravel to claim remains while we rest.

Pay at the window for re-heated, prejudiced incantations. Take them home and enjoy with wide-screen, half-digested, replayed previews of solemn national celebration. Then sleep, by all means; we'll need all the energy we can muster for compiling this generation's abridged anthology of official war stories, highlights of heedless slaughter, to burnish our long and proud imperial tradition. At some point, by virtue of accidentally seeing and listening, we may find ourselves participating in our own rendering. Few of our prey will be left alive enough to water the sun with their modest, time-rubbed repetitions, to rephrase their particular, unifying laws. Our version of events has already made its money back in foreign distribution and pre-sales; all victory deadlines must be met.

It can get so quiet, with or without the dead watching our constant deployments. From our tilted promontory we may see one last woman scuffle away across cracked parchment of dry wash beneath us, muttering to herself—or is she singing at us?—as she rounds the sheared granite face and disappears into a grove of spindly, trembling tamarisk shadows lining the main road. We'll soon hear little other than our breathing, as shale cools and bats rise to feed, taking over from sated swallows. Night anywhere is home, darkness a cue for turning inward, quiet an invitation to review our expensive successes before morning extraction from the twin rivers of our common cradle.

Well it is bad. No one said I had to write it.

Kan any one stop these
Kriminals in
Kontrol of the White House
Aren't there true patriots who will
Rise up and shout:
Love not war

Rise up my peace birds, free the
Oppressed who have been
Victimised by the
Evil Bushitlers!

lauraw:

Chickpea was stealing from Shelley in an ironical sense, don't you see? It's a new work in the sense that it means something totally different in this context; it's "found poetry", only re-contextualized and hipped up for those crazy kids nowadays!

the cycle of life

crying, eating, incontinence, sleeping
crying, whining, eating, sleeping
insolence,eating,pimple-squeezing,sleeping
repression,lovemaking,eating,sleeping
blogging, eating, reflection, sleeping
crying, eating, incontinence, sleeping

How about this?

I can make one up that will make everyone else's look like frickin' Shakespeare.

The Forgotten Flower

for
gotten

flower in a

nu
clear
B!
LA!
ST!

you stayed in there until the last.

for
gotten flower drenched with

CH! EM! IC! AL! S!1!

you've got to ring the bells!

ring the bells, you poor flower
being stomped on by fascist power!

Ring!
The!
Bells!
Flower!

forgotten flower i will remember your strength and scream your name to the fascist baby-killing corporate whore-guerillas trying to stop me from burning the flag.

for
gotten flower! i love you

The Muse

Just a drop more?
The whiskey competes with the keyboard
For my attention
Perhaps I can combine the two?
Yes...

Ah, sweet burning in my throat, and blessed warmth
Now, only now...
Do I have the will, in this heat
To share my vision of beauty with the world

I think that really was Rosie O posting here.

We busted out of Gitmo
Had to get away from those tools
And go to work in a steelyard
Like a bunch of Jersey fools

But now I'm making so much money
And living in a mansion on a hill
Got to get down to Milwaukee
And be John Kerry's shill

Chorus:
We were boomers
Now we're oldsters--
Limosine, baby, liberals.

Yeah Stevie's got his Sopranos gig
And Max is beating it all through the night
Mebbe Julie was a stuckup bitch
But Patty's ass aint near so tight

My voice is shot like the muffler
Of a dinosaur cadillac
Despite the implants my hairline
Is gone and it aint coming back

(Repeat chorus and fade)

Watch, ladies and gentlemen, as I recite the worst poem known to man.

"Lugubrious fascinations in a minor keyhole"

Fuck. Where are my pants? Where am I? Is that a man? Why is he wearing lingerie and a Klan hood? Where is his other hand?

Oh.

Fuck. I shouldn't have drank that patriotism.

The only true bad poetry is vogon poetry.

See, see the obtuse sky
Marvel at its big transparent depths.
Tell me, Cindy Sheehan do you
Wonder why the wombat ignores you?
Why its foobly stare
makes you feel despondent.
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your existenihilism facial growth
That looks like
A jolt soda.
What's more, it knows
Your frump potting shed
Smells of pea.
Everything under the big obtuse sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You only charm semens.

Well, thanks VK! Although I did have a month on my old blog to ruminate over LW's poem, so I guess they just come easily now.

Monty,

You really "get" me.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at the Bush Administration and Ace’s Blog

I
Among this massive sausage hang,
The only moving things
Were twenty lousy T-shirts

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which are hung the bodies of Rumsfeld, Cheney, and Bush.

III
The black oil spouted from the shattered pipeline.
Set free from phallic tubes of hegemony.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
But bbeck counts for three.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of integrity
Or the beauty of cowbell,
The squeakhole whistling
Or just after.

VI
Comments filled the long window
With barbaric yawps.
The shadow of the INDC
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An attitude of “Fuck you before I stomp off again.”

VII
O fat men of Saddam,
Why do you imagine golden showers
Flowing from whores of the West?
Do you not see how the imperialist crusaders
have taken away your joyous kite-flying days?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That Dave from Garfield Ridge
Heard it all last year.

IX
When the Cedarford flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many conspiracies.

X
At the sight of roto-birds of death
Flying near a green zone,
The babies of Persia
Would cry out sharply.

XI
Michael rode to Connecticut
In a dream.
A fear pierced him,
In that he thought he was battling
A shit-covered Cerberus in Lauraw’s
Unruly weed patch.
When he awoke,
He found his spudgun had been fired
And took a shower.

XII
Ace is posting
Bush is living
I must be wasting time,
And wishing someone would waste Bush.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing on our troops in Iraq
And it was going to snow on our troops in Iraq.
Bush still doesn’t care about black people.
Rove sat at his desk
And smiled.

Hippie chicks
I got a thing for hippie chicks

Natural hair and natural skin
Natural boobs and natural smell
Mother Hubbard dress
Raspberry incense and patchouli funk
Battered Noam Chomsky paperback

Got that Earth Mother thing going
Publicly I disdain them
Privately I desire them

Hippie chicks
I got a thing for hippie chicks

WHY?
WHY do you hate me so?
do i frighten you?

do i
challenge you
?

do i
show you your own
hypocrisy

?

ask, i ask
you
WHY?

WHY must we be
apart?
apartheid, is that you
hide
ing?

you say you love
JESUS
but didn't he die for the black man
too?

WHY?

FREE MANDELA

Gentle Jihadi
Soothing instrument of God's will
Shed your worldly cares and touch me with your bliss

Gentle Jihadi
Adorned with the soil of occupied land
Clad yourself in a vest of righteousness and might

Gentle Jihadi
Armed with a vest of shattering light
Unleash the wrath of Islam on the fiends

Gentle Jihadi
Finger trembling over the button
Why do you hesitate as destiny calls?

Gentle Jihadi
Belittling the infidels with a view of your heels
Do you hear the chiming of a cell phone?

Gentle Jihadi
Your reasoned protest well received
Rest in Allah's embrace while your brothers carry on, donning their vests in Darwinian devotion

The ocean waves crash
and the deep waters churn
They churn around the beasts,
the beasts who are wiser than man

There in the cold of the deep
burn souls white hot.
Glowing through their eyes, old and sad
like sick puppies who grew up too fast.

To research claim the island-dwellers
"to learn more about them is what we need"
But which herbs and which wine
is the knowledge they really seek.

Of all people, you should know better
than to persecute the Jews of the sea,
I expect better from the children
of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

And when our grisly appetites are sated,
kirk and Spock will save us not,
The waves crash, and the seas churn
around nothing.

empty.

silent.

Grip it
But not too tightly
It's not a jackhandle
A mix of firm and gentle
Use both hands
And easy now easy now
Not too fast and not too slow

Bring the bat around
and meet the ball

What ho, Don Adams!
what could it have been that we had seen?
is it not in our bones,
is it not in our marrow?
are we not one, and anon?

Fare well, gentle spirit,
take your place among the stars.
Different there, isn't it?

WHY THE CAGED BIRD CROAKS

Where is my food?
Where is my water?
Oh, the avianity!

O my salad days of youth
Before your French dressing drenched me
Parting the leaves of my limp lettuce and dripping down the smooth surfaces
Of my cherry-red tomatos
Then, the rough hardness of your twice-baked croutons
Plunging, plunging, plunging into the bowelly bottom of my deepest bowl

Now, I oxidize with brownness
The memory of you like hard bacon bits Drying on aged nakedness

Hangin'

I want to Starbucks today
Just lookin' for a creamy latte
had some money so I could pay
But the cracker in his clean white barista fascista shirt left me hangin'.

Hangin'...
...like a chad from a stolen election.
...like a million black brothers from their lynchin' ropes.
...like a poor child with no healthcare and a runny nose.

Hangin' like the homies
Dyin' in the streets
Shot down by the geeks
And their orbital superweapons
And their Micro$oftie computerations
And their glittery, jittery, silicone-implanted tittery.

I went to the Starbucks today
Just lookin' for a creamy latte
All I got was a real bad day.
Now I gotta go Dunkin Donuts' way

Shit.

FREE MUMIA!

Snapshots From A Dutch Oven

Dreaming without slumber,
Enshrouded in methane miasma
I ponder, ponderous;

Like the tocsin of doom,
Like the dirge of the damned,
Like Baphomet's bullhorn,
The starfish screams its unfettered rage.

Pounded olfactory senses beg mercy
But man's best friend lies blameless;
I dare not blame this one on the dog.

Frijoles refritos.

tear. down. the strong tower.
speak TRUTH. to power,

they flooded. our homes!
put us in a death dome!

keeping. the brown boy. down
NOT welcome. in whitey town

send ours. to die for his, oil
really makes. my BLOOD boil

raping Gaia all day long
singing that cowboy song

cindy PEACE ! sheehan saint
coming back; her baby ain't.

ohio, florida, hanging chad
this world has gone mad

NOT my womb, you can't touch
i'll never let. it come to such

trying. to boo; and scare
taking away. my medicare

no WAR: no fur. no SUVs
peace! love! and trees!

Saw a garden, overrun with weeds.
I said, not me.
Through Spring I smothered and plucked them.
In Summer my garden was blooming brilliant.
But in the slumberous warmth
the weeds
got ahead of me.
Have I got the will,
in this heat?
Oh,
let them go to seed
And sleep with me under the snow
Chancing some Spring awakening!

Dang! I've always admired the comments of most of youse guys, but putting your remarks to verse makes you seem so much wiser.

Like a Harold Pinter without the hallucinations.

Cordially...

Girlfriend in a coma.
I know.

I know.

It's Bush's fault.

There! That wasn't so good, was it?

I weep for Cedarford - he is dead!
O, weep for Cedarford! though our tears
Thaw not the IP ban which binds so dear a freaking racist nutjob.
And thou, sad AoSHQ, selected from all blogs
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure commenters,
And teach them thine own sorrow, say: "With me
Died Cedarford; till Ace dares
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be
An echo and a light unto obscurity!

Jimmie,

the Recliners?

In the dome dropped briefs of cotton.
Pinching thousands of loafs the stench was rotten.

All around for the world to see, I whip it out and take a pee.
But nobody cares about my rude crass act, they all dead and that's a fact!

CNN, FOX and NBC. All wail about the end times and armageddon. But they don't know shit cuz to WalMart I be heading.

With everyone dead for miles around, there ain't no need to stand your ground. I glide through the aisles with nary a care, and pick up some gel for fixing my hair.

On to sporting goods - just in case, to pick up a new shotgun that hits harder than mace. The suns going down now and its time to head home.

Its just another day in the ThunderDome.

"What is Old is New"

October how I morn for thee
Bolsheviks set you free,
Yet all have forgotten but me
From shining sea to sea.

We forget that coward Trotsky
In the Winter Palace drinking tea;
Glorious sailors made us free
Yet paradise was not to be.

For Bush cursed this land for me
Blood for oil, killing Liberty’s tree,
Only Revolution is the key,
Bringing hope for you and me!

___________________________

(ok, late & incoherent but man, who else referenced the Bolsheviks, Oct revolution, a cliché for a title AND used a killer AAAA AAAA AAAA rhyme?)

This&That

-------------------------

Little Birdie
With Your Beak Pressed Up Against
The Bakery Window -

There Are No Crumbs for You Today
Only Death.

-------------------

Call em funbags or bazooms
Be they A-size (lackluster)
Or big old double-D pontoons
They all set my slacks afluster

Capped by nips of pink or black or tan
Aureoles as big as dimes
Or the size of dinner plates
In all countries and all climes

I say to all you pent up honies:
Hand me that tube of Astra-Glide
Unhitch those sweater-ponies
And let me ride, ride, ride.

I hear
From a distance
(But too close! Too close!)
A sound
It is
So horrible
It cannot be
Human
Methinks
But he who makes the sound
Runs
Runs for president
Runs for president of the United States
Of America
"Yearrrggghhh"

Forever Lost in You

O laura, sweet laura!
I search your essence
in the overgrown lagoon where
your bearded appendi forever kiss!
Perfect are they
with feet a quarter the size
of Lipstick's on one furry end
and your unkempt garden
of seaweed at the other.
Entering the mouth of your gaping river
My trouser trout has jungle fever
as it searches your vast, hirsute expanse for tuna.
Call me Pinocchio, for thou art so cavernous
surely Ishmael and all Moby's have come
and gone before me.
In so deep, falling
no longer to see the light of day!
I shout your name - lauraw!
listening in wonder as it
echoes into the fuzzy abyss.
Forever lost in you.

Paean to THEMANFROMHOPE

or

I am Joseph Biden's bastard son

My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am white, but oh! my soul is black.
Black as the night is the Hope-ful child,
But I am white as if bereaved of melanin.
And I am not Nipsy Russell.

between the breasts
of bestial
Hill lie large
men who praise

Hill's bulbous cankled
body these men's
fingers toss trunks
shuffle sacks spin kegs they

curl
loving
around
beers

I love beers

I saw the best minds of my generation enlightened by madness, military-industrial complex,
Marching hirsute and pendulous through the white man’s streets at noon looking for a cot and a fix
who lounged rainbow and dazed through Sproul Plaza seeking dope or sex or both, and followed the brilliant swift captain to lying discourse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Europe

A man with a nameless face
Hiding in a forgotten place
Toting his company briefcase
Goes inside a missile base
He’s trying to keep pace
By playing his final ace
A button pushed with a lack of grace
Not caring, he begins to erase
The last vestige of the human race
By playing Star Wars in outer space

good lord

Rosies designer jeans fall to the floor
My God, she is hairier than Dan Deirdorf!
oh, so much undergrowth beneath them britches
a flock of quail fly outta the sumbitches
a rubber wont be enough, I must admit
more like a shotgun and a hunting permit

+1 to BumperStickerist. A frank, moving commentary on contemporary social inequities.

I salute you, sir.

Maggie and Harry

Maggie was too pretty as a lass
All the men had asked her to marry
But Maggie to each said “Thank you, no.
I must wait for my handsome Harry”

This lad Harry was indeed handsome
A fine figure of a man was he
He loved every lass in the village
But he always came home to Maggie

They said “Forget him Maggie, he’ll just hurt you
He knows that here you will always wait”
But Maggie would smile and shake her head
Harry would be Maggie’s chosen mate

To the surprise of all, Harry came home
He said he’s tired of this runnin’ ‘round
And if Maggie still loved her Harry
It was time for him to settle down

So Harry wed Maggie on Sunday
And a handsome couple they were
Maggie promised herself to Harry
And Harry trothed forever to her

They settled in a house by the river
Their married life they began to live
Harry took a hire in the village
so riches to Maggie he could give

Maggie was in her wedded glory
A home she would make for her Harry
And someday; she knew it would happen
A son of Harry’s she would carry

Harry would leave for work in the morn
Down the lane to the village he would go
He’d pass the O’Shaunessey farm
Just when the cock would start to crow

He’d see Maureen standing in the door
In a nightshirt of homespun cotton
That could not hide the woman inside
A sight not easily forgotten!
To Maggie he tried to stay faithful
Now we must credit Harry his due
But a weakness for flesh he did have
And women like Maureen were few

There is talk in the village of this
Some say it was lust, some say it was fate
That made Harry forsake his Maggie
And go in through O’Shaunessey’s gate

Now no doubt that Maureen seduced Harry
And it was the one time that they lay
Harry drank of the wine of Maureen
And Maureen took Harry’s seed that day

In the fall ’twas that Maureen gave birth
The village folklore has it this way
The night the bastard Jamie was born
Was the night that Maggie died, they say

Doc Kelley was there with her that night
And he said it was a sight to see
Maggie, with no child in her, gave birth
At the same time as O’Shaunessey

Some say ‘twas ‘cause Maggie was barren
While Maureen was swollen by Harry’s spore
That caused Maggie to take to her bed
And curse her Harry for ever more

Others say ‘twas ‘cause he broke her heart
And I doubt we’ll know ‘tween the two
But Harry knows now the price you pay
When you partake of the devil’s brew

Now this lad of Maureen O’Shaunessey
There is no doubt that Harry did sire
But some say he’s more Maggie’s child
For in his eyes, there rages a fire

Harry walks to his hire in the village still
But today passing the O’Shaunessey gate
There is a young lad of six at the door
And in the lad’s face, Harry sees hate

If Only Al Gore
by Paul Krugman

The Wretched Soul doth moan,
Who dareth snatch the throne
From gentle, godlike Gore
The instant just before
His fleshy haunch couldst seat?
For thus the knaves didst cheat
And in his place install
The greatest knave of all.

The farce should not have stood
Nor Evil banished Good.
Fate's injury to Gore
Begat a pus-filled sore
From which our terror seeps -
And lo! My pillow weeps
When I alone at night
Bemoan my Chimpish plight!

What is left - but Death?

Generals gathered in their masses
Just like witches at black masses
Evil minds that plot destruction
Sorcerers of deaths' construction
Oh lord yeah ...

... oh, ORIGINAL bad poetry ....

Ode to Ogden Nash

Darkness descends upon my soul
A twilight of spiritual emptiness
"Meaningless, meaningless"
Cries the Teacher from his palace
Noone remembers Ogden Nash

I huddle in my closet
Imprisoned, raped, abandoned
A kindred soul with Patty Hearst
No more for me the laughter of youth
Ogden Nash is dead

An Ode to Monty

Killing me with laughter
You with game show host namesake
Tears in my eyes during and after
Reading the prose that you make

Horny bugger!

With an ass like a keg
Over tree-trunk legs
She was vomited from the gates of hell

Cockblocker, wingman's bane,
Cankles and gunt and her back had a mane;
Drank like a fish, cursed like a sailor
A blind, drunken goat wouldn't stoop to nail 'er

But she could suck-start a Peterbilt.

Point nary a finger, for you've all been there
Running interference for your bro,
If he's gonna score, her fat friend has to go.

So you throw yourself on the grenade,
Surrender your pride so he can get laid
But when the bill comes due and your price is paid
Sometimes there's a silver lining.

If she can suck-start a Peterbilt.

You'll probably hate yourself tomorrow
But consider the huge favor you're owed.
So before in the pits of self-loathing you wallow
Consider that fat chicks always swallow.

Particularly if they can suck-start a Peterbilt.

The new Andrew Sullivan production of Keats' On Looking into Chapman's Homer is ready to hit broadway. It features an all-gay cowboy cast and is called On Looking Into Homer's Chaps.

At the tender age of eight
Mary Jane was already a bitch
Spoiled rotten by her parents
that were third generation rich

Now Bobby was a neighbor boy,
a playmate of Mary Jane
Poor Bobby never had a say
in the rules of any game

Mary Jane was strong and forceful
and always got her way
Do what I tell you, Bobby
and do it when I say

There was a day in early summer
when they played with a water hose
They both became completely soaked,
wearing transparent clothes.

Mary Jane looked at Bobby
and pointed at his crotch
What do you have in your pants?
Bobby, what is it that you’ve got?

Bobby pulled his shorts down
and said, it’s just a part of me
Just like you, it’s what I use
when I have to pee.

Mary Jane pulled down her pants
and looked, aghast
She didn’t have what Bobby had
She pulled her pants up fast!

She ran into her house,
screaming, “Mommy, come here”
Safely inside her house
her eyes began to tear.

Bobby shrugged, pulled up his shorts
and turned to walk away
Suddenly a smile appeared
He had bested Mary Jane today!
He heard her door
before he heard her yell
“Bobby, Bobby, don’t go home
I have something to tell”

He saw here strutting down the walk
The same old Mary Jane
Not one trace of tears,
gone was all her pain.

With a grin, she pointed at her crotch
and said, with a triumphant grunt
“My Mommy told me, with one of these
I can get all of those I want”

it was hairy
and black
she called it
her crack
but it looked like a manhole to me.

Come on, baby.
Let's have sex.
I don't know why I'm acting like this...
I don't do this for a living.

I just wanna f**k you.
I just wanna f**k you.

I don't do this for a living.

Come on, baby.
Let's have sex.

But you have to be into Betsy.
Are you into Betsy?
You've gotta be into Betsy.
Let's have sex.

(not an entry)

How will Ace pick?
After reading each limerick
I find all to be quite comic:
He will have a fit!

Lamentations at a DuPont Circle Quizno's

Dude, I already told you
the free-sandwich card is supposed to be
all punched through
the cashier just forgot to do it last time
you owe me a toasted meatball parm, biiiatch

Don't look at me like that
Is it because I'm black?
Is it because you don't know any black people?
I'm tired of be oppressed
you owe me a toasted meatball parm, biiiatch

The Right-Wing Wurlitzer
is always doggin' me 'round
Sometimes I "speak black" to show I have "cred"
So what if I went to Andover Prep
and I wear Bucks
you owe me a toasted meatball parm, biiatch

Do you know who I am?
I will write something nasty about you on my blog
which is read by literally hundreds of people
Can't you get past your racial hatred?
you owe me a toasted meatball parm, biiiatch

Okay, okay, now you're gonna play that card?
You really want to go down that road?
Granted, this free sandwich card is from Blimpie's
If I was a white man you'd give me some R E S P E CT

You owe me a toasted meatball parm, biiatch.
You owe me a toasted meatball parm, biiatch.
You owe me a toasted meatball parm, biiatch.
I also want a 64 ounce bucket o' Mountain Dew.
Racist.

I seek the muse with just one hand,
My John Thomas standing proud,
Lamenting my fair land
Mouthing “Ward Churchill” aloud.

Just one tow’r without a twin,
Wishing his stood near to mine
Roosting Chickens call it “sin”
Tonto, have a glass of wine.

His peace pipe’s a thing of beauty
Made of finest morning wood
Puffing it’s not hardly duty
My paleface gets splooshed but good.

I grab a Kleenex, tremble, shoot
My reverie has gone kapoot.

I've always hated poetry--up to now. Your poetry is so bad that its actually good, unlike good poetry that I can't stand because its actually bad poetry.

On the first part of the journey
I was looking at all the life
There were plants and birds and rocks and things
There was sand and hills and rings
The first thing I met was a fly with a buzz
And the sky with no clouds
The heat was hot and the ground was dry
But the air was full of sound

I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert you can remember your name
’cause there ain’t no one for to give you no pain
La, la ...

After two days in the desert sun
My skin began to turn red
After three days in the desert fun
I was looking at a river bed
And the story it told of a river that flowed
Made me sad to think it was dead

You see I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert you can remember your name
’cause there ain’t no one for to give you no pain
La, la ...

After nine days I let the horse run free
’cause the desert had turned to sea
There were plants and birds and rocks and things
There was sand and hills and rings
The ocean is a desert with it’s life underground
And a perfect disguise above
Under the cities lies a heart made of ground
But the humans will give no love

You see I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert you can remember your name
’cause there ain’t no one for to give you no pain
La, la ...

chill wind of fascism blows
as people power grows
takin it to the streets
avoid all kinds of meats

Larouch in 2008!!!!

e

Off the cuff free association verse:

Moonbat

As the Sun let me know with its warm, fuzzy glow
To start a new page in my diariccal tome.
Head hung - another day - same old way - pray.
Pray to the new Gods who slayed the one true god
To help me through voice champion the choice of the new constitution.
I seek absolution for the sick in mind (conservative kind)
Full of the slime of the muck and the brine
To be found on a place in elecrical space - that... of the Ace.

Mock! Mock! Mock like the
Cock of the walk with the shock of you know who you are.
Supporting the empire performing on live wire while hundreds of thousands
And blown away houses all drown in the hurtin'
Imposed by the Chimpy-hick- McHalliburtin.

Voices all crying,
Voices all dying,
To the sounds of the lying. We ask - no! we need!
Who will lead
Who will bleed
Who, indeed who?
Who indeed,
Who?

That poem by "Oliver Willis" was exceptional.

Bunch of worthless choads
All of you
Stupid sheep's faces bleating glassy-eyed
Credulous chumps one and all
An insult to the truly damaged
Like that banjo-picking retard
  from Deliverance
A pack of cretinous turds
A parliament of idiots
Vainly straining at the boundaries
  of your substandard brains
Your existence is an insult

And yet I am one of you
And I love you
And so I hate myself

Madder then a skinhead watching the Jeffersons
my mud hut was just flattened by Americans
Wife smells so bad, I can't hold her near
I'd Jihad but those virgins don't bathe either

I'm entering this from your OU Bomber thread above:
It's Beginning To Look Alot Like Jihad

"It's beginning to look alot like Jihad
everywhere you go.
From Oklahoma to Tel Aviv,
guys named Mustafa and Steve,
diversity strikes a blow.
It's beginning to look a lot like Jihad,
which the leftists all embrace
and the Jihadis fight to see
a crescent atop the Christmas tree
and the Jews erased."

Sixty-nine times in sixty-nine days
I thought of Ace
My fingers and my heart could not keep pace

But soft, I said
Could this be love?
Ace, in sweet anonymity, tell me it's true
For all my life, I've been waiting for you

She must have found out he's a lawyer.

Well, it's nice to see my name got dropped in a couple of these.

MY turn...

Ode to a Misfit

On the walkway, through the window,
From without I watch the party.
The empty suits, the mindless lutes
Of laughter, hollow but hearty.

I asked them why they invite me,
“Is it for the pity you feel?”
“Yea Nay!” Do their two faces say,
And then ignore me with dull zeal.

The gravel underneath my heels
Grates like rocks upon hardened soles.
I do ponder as I wander
About the playing of our roles.

An independent sapien
Who’s lost on a planet of apes.
They’re group-evolved yet self-involved,
I’m a square ‘mongst circular shapes.

Another step along the drive
Full of dread, I will be there soon
Quiet night, awash in moonlight
I feel akin to a raccoon.

O mighty mammal, the sole one
With a bone inside his penis,
I walk alone, and softly moan
For they all reject my genus.

My knuckles tap mahogany,
On the cold doorstep I am posed.
E’er hopin’ the door to open
I know it will always be closed.

*sniff* It's so true.

Later.
bbeck

[Standing in awe of bbeck's poetic genius, eyes buggy and mouth open even wider than usual]

Upsidedown Margaritas

Lying back in the recliner
For the tenth goddamn time in an hour.
Motherfuckers don't stop pouring
And I can guaran-fucking-tee there wasn't much sour!

Mouthful of upsidedown margarita
Don't let it run down my chin.
Feel like I could really fucking hurl
No way, gotta keep it in.

Try to smile and look macho
Swallow that big assed shot
Mouth now filling with salty saliva
I ain't feelin' too damned hot.

Get up and do the gravity test;
Not ready to fall over just yet.
But my stomach is in knots
And my foreheads starting to sweat.

My fucking melon feels like
It weighs at least a hundred stone
Need to find a place to rest
Need to be alone.

Ahh! A nice soft bed!
A few winks and I'll feel alright.
Point myself in the right direction,
Close the door, turn out the light.

Lying there I close my eyes.
Shit! My fate I did just seal.
The goddamn room is spinning
Like a fucking rhoulette wheel!

Gonna puke! Stand up, topple over.
Head hits the fucking floor!
No idea where the fuck I am.
Can't even find the door.

See a window and crawl to it
It's already open too!
Nice cool breeze hits my face
Just as I projectile spew.

I unleash a violent tidal wave
Of margarita and Burger King.
It felt like my nuts came out my mouth
And I blew out my O-ring.

Jesus I feel so much better!
Hell! I could drink some more!
Wipe my mouth on the curtain
And walk out the goddamned door.

Here I am! Life o' the party!
Who wants another shot?!
Then I hear the cursing.
Someone's really hot!

"Who the fuck puked out my window?"
"What fucker's so damned mean,
that he spewed out of my window
and didn't remove the screen?!"

There on the window sill
My double whopper with cheese remained.
I tipped the fuck out the door
Leaving the host with the chunks I had strained.

[Standing in awe of bbeck's poetic genius, eyes buggy and mouth open even wider than usual]

Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all night. Unfortunately.

Later,
bbeck

COMPOS,
At least you didn't shit your pants...

Nice poem bbeck! But I'd always treat you fairly. Cuz you got a nice rack! ; )

I've got nothing except poems that start with roses are red and someone from nantucket.

I've got nothing except poems that start with roses are red and someone from nantucket.

What, together? Would that be like,

Roses are red
Violets are blue
If you could reach yours
I bet you would, too.

This Dark pit of despair we call reality
consumes my wretched soul
I grasp blindly in the darkness
looking for a way out
The agony causes me to writh in pain
like a snake caught in fire
No way out
I need to get out

Gawdangit, 109 comments and I just found out. Shite!

The Night Game

It's a good thing this night game

I wear my cap
The only time I wear a cap

I pay too much for a hotdog
Not because I like hotdogs
But because it's part of the ritual

I buy a program
It's a soft night in June
I can see the quarter moon
Just past the kliegs in left field
The stands are half empty
It's still early in the season

My team is dressed in their home uniforms
White against the green of the grass
I can hear the infield chatter
And the thud of the ball against the mitt

The game ebbs and flows
The night wears on
The crowd swells and then subsides
As the game wends its way
To the finish

And I find myself shouting
Come on come on
Swing for the fences
And I eat my hotdog
And I never think of how happy I am
To be in this ballpark at this time

It's a good thing this night game
Maybe the best thing

Man, that's some funny stuff, you guys.

Monty got da skillz. Too bad. That means he loses. Monty, here's a suggestion: For each poem, roll a pair of dice, take the sum, count the words until you reach that number, and insert a curse word. Repeat until you reach the end of each. This should fuck up your poems sufficiently for a win.

rdbrewer:

Aw, come on, man! What's more pretentious than sports poetry, fer chrissakes? Who writes poems about baseball?

Well, I do, but still....

Plus I did post a couple of poems that dealt with dicks and boobies and turds and farts and stuff, so gimme some slack here. Plus I kind of like that poem and this is the only half-reasonable chance I'll get to post it where anyone will read it.

I mean, let's face it -- it's either post my crap here or scribble it on the wall of the toilet in the comfort station out on the I-90 interchange. And if I spend too much more time out there, the cops are gonna start asking some questions I don't wanna answer, you know?

Just wondering,

- when is the deadline for entries?

- how do we send them in - post them here, or email to you?

Ode to Ronnie Earle

Ronnie Earle was a local nit-wit.
Upon fevered revenge his mind did sit.

Moonbats cackled in deranged glee.
The devil would be outed for all to see.

Bogus indictments flew like confetti.
But the net soon knew that shit was petty.

Ronnie rose from the ashes a phoenix to behold.
Touting fresh charges just 5 hours old!

A pause in the action, only an hour or two.
The net soon declared that Ronnie was through.

Deranged and downtrodden he now walks the street.
With the credibility of grand wizard in a sheet.

You want drunken poetry?
This one's a true story, and actually made the print edition of 'Modern Drunkard' magazine.
(Great website, by the way...www.drunkard.com)

Flight of the Swallow(er)s

A nest of chicks, our open beaks demanding,
Ten gullets fed with booze from bar to bar
And when at last there were just we two standing,
We took to foot, having neither wings nor car.

A carnival kaleidoscope, blurred flashing colored light
Singing, shouting, shoving, shooting, more
The epic journey of these booze birds’ flight
Came crashing to an end upon the floor.

Hours turned to minutes in the mind’s eye of the morning
Vague memories of the last night’s roust-about
Of several bars where with and without warning
The barkeep shouted at us “You two, OUT!!”

The return journey to the roost remained a mystic trick
And the issue grew more heated as we squawked
“You fucker, YOU drove home!” “No, YOU drove home, you prick!”
Until my brother said “You assholes walked.”

There once was a crooner named Paul
Whose ego was not very small.
He'd scream, in a rage:
"Up there on that stage,
What matters is me -- and that's all!"

Clumsy Girl

My left arm must be longer than my right
because the bannister in my house is on the left
and when my foot slides off the step
and when I start to become airborne
that left arm snaps out to grasp the bannister and take my weight.
And that hurts too.

All he heard was a brief tumbling sound, then silence.
"You OK?"
"Yeah."
You fall again?"
(sigh) "YEAH."
Masculine laughter from above.

Well, let's just set awhile on the steps to catch our breath.
Moment's up, with pounding heart and
trembling ankles, I negotiate the rest.

In the safe kitchen, I bend to get a coffee cup
from the dishwasher and hit my head on an open cupboard door
(which I left open the night before)
Struggling up from the floor
I clunk my head on that same goddamned cupboard door.
"It ain't easy," is my refrain.

There's a case of cheap water glasses
standing open by the wall
because like fucking clockwork
I let another one fall

And as it smashes I can see forward in time
that no amount of sweeping will get all the pieces
and I wince for that morning two weeks hence
when my bare foot will recover the last one.

"It ain't easy,' but it is.

Hubby should bring me coffee in bed in the mornings.

my finger reaches down
to touch the cool, silicon-scented surface of cyberspace
and ripples flow outward
silently, in concentric rings
growing
touching
changing nothing.

Oh, yeah. Booze definitely helps. I think I just made contact with my inner chain-smoking 16 year old girl. She's listening to Joni Mitchell and wants me to bring her another brandy Alexander.

1) Your comether look
Oh, oh,
2) Wot, will these hands ne’er
be clean?
3) Why do they want to
hurt us?
4) Did I mention my
migraines?
5) 6) Tra la la la la
papa!

Higamous hogamous
Man is monogamous.
Hogamous higamous
Woman is polygamous.

Yeah, well, it's the best I can do right now. Fuck off.

what about freestylin' organic street-haiku (old-school)?

poppin' and lockin'
you ain't got no skillz
suck it, fool, what up

late at night
when everyone is abed
I pull my old secrets from a cigar box under the mattress
and run them through my fingers

they smell of cedar shavings
and fried baloney

I was torn between "fried baloney" and "hotdog water." Poetry is hard.

Yeah, drinking is required.

Ode to a Hero

A true hero, the best of them all
A testament, a role model for AmeriKKKans
And not just because you're Canadian
You were created by the warmongers
But you rejected their warlike ways
And now fight for peace, against violence,
With your armor-piercing claws,
W O L V E R I N E !

Not like those fascists The Avengers
Who hassle true revolutionaries like Kang
You are a freedom fighter, an insurgent
Not an evil one like Cheshire
Oh crap, she's a Titans villain
Who can keep your rogue's galleries straight?
Except for Magneto and Deathstroke the Terminator
They kick ass, even though he dropped "the Terminator" from his name
Too Repug-thug-lican, good for him
W O L V E R I N E !

Captain AmeriKKKa doesn't care about black people
Falcon's a token if there ever were one
But you do, especially if they can
control the weather and are hot babes
Oh warrior of peace, why don't you slay
T H E . R E A L . E V I L
He's in the White House
No, I didn't get mixed up with DC comics again
I'm not talking about Lex Luthor
I'm talking about the BusHitler
Nightcrawler tried and failed in X-Men 2
The Authority did it and they rock
Why can't you? I don't understand.
wolverine

There's nothing left of your ret-conned samurai honor
You're the best at what you do
And what you do is shirk your duty
I call you a pussy while Uatu weeps

Adamantium skeleton
Hollow soul
Not Wolverine,
Not Logan, just a
Cowardly
Canucklehead

Hello mudda
Hello fadda
Here I am at
The intifada
My best friend Mo
He got 'sploded
I guess he did not know the belt was loaded.

Hard to leave you
I could look at you all day
Your contours are magnificent
Your size and heft praiseworthy
A lovely hue and a shape
  of tapered perfection

A shame to flush
Hard to believe that only yesterday
You were a porterhouse steak

Monty, that was beautiful!

Oldie but goodie:

He drinks because she nags, he thinks.
She nags because he drinks, she thinks.
While neither will admit what's true:
That he's a sot and she's a shrew.

a sad look of
confusion crosses her visage:
"Whatever"
(her eyes plead with me)
"could be wrong?"
as I lean over
and whisper
that I didn't pull out in time

It was nothing really, a common dog shit.
But scooped from the lawn the plan it did fit.

Wrapped and packaged with the createst of care.
For the recipient it would mark that dissention was there.

Protests are fine as are letters some say.
But a box full of shit is the way to really make their day.

The Artist's Understanding: Captain Planet

Wind: Asian wisdom

Giving me breath, sustaining my mind

Water: Communism

Quenching my thirst, sharing my love

Earth: black pride

Holding me steady, rooted in strength

Fire: Honky

Burn honky, burn

Heart: Native American

Noble love, in a trail of tears

Gaia: Love's integrator

Fusing the elements in peace and harmony

Captain Planet: The fused whole of Gaia's love

He's our hero, Gonna take pollution down to zero

The Power is Yours

Monty's mother strained and pushed
"Is it a boy?" But the doctor only shrugged
"Naw, just a little shit."

the calm air
stirs me
from a slumber uninterrupted
by fear or
nightmare
as I gaze down
and remember
the dead cat hanging from my dick.

BOO-YAH!!!

The New House Lecture

Purple Avenger got him a
Lectrical code jones.
Compulsion wrangles
Like luminum wires.
Safety of his brotharin
From lectrical fires means
The word he must flings,
The BOCA word, the bible
Must be the spoken word, like fire.
Must be spoken.
Must be spoken, now.
Saving lives, killing flames
The Avenging Stinguisha
In the thread of conflagurations.

No breaker box
Shall be spared.

shit

bbeck's a square peg
in a round-hole world
but there are other problems
what if you're a round peg
in a square-hole world?
you fit in everywhere
but you don't really belong

Seriously, Monty's Ode to a Crap beats all.

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

and two old
dudes

blowing each other

Read in Maya Angelou's voice --

Toiling toiling.
My back hurts
Go home to bills and notices
Each day the same as before

Clean up on aisle four
Yes, master. Right away, master
Baby girl needs braces
Does anyone care?

Sam Walton doesn't care
Toiling toiling

roses are red
violets are blue
the Special Olympics give me a boner.

"No Higher Love"

Cautious gazes across the room
a lilting laugh that carries
over the murmuring of the party

Secret touches as we push past each other
a smile that lights my heart
talking and laughter, dance and wine
I can't believe I'm going to put my balls in your mouth later.

"Burn baby burn" moonbats screeched with glee.
Taking their ques from Teddy and Nancy Pelosi.

Harry snuck into the corner a scared sniveling git.
Harry had already gotten too many boxes of shit!

Goofy Dick Durbin didn't know what to say.
That never stops him, he waxed inchoerent anyway!

The left in a frenzy, the right having a fit.
The only option left is to send more boxes of shit.

^
Aaah, gay poetry.
How nice.

Ace, still have those inside contacts in the highest eschalons of the amateur online webzine Slate? Come to think of it, is that still around? Let's see if we can get Poet Laureate Robert Pinsky here to judge this awesome smackdown.

Andrew, that cracked me up, dude. I reck-o-nize that.

Back from the post office, bombs all on their way.
No, not explosives, that much I will say.

Little wrapped packages convey dissent in extreme.
This batch was "deluxe", I even added whipped cream.

The clerk complains my delights leak and smell.
The postage is correct, so I say go to hell.

Freezing and packing with dry ice is the answer they say.
I pause for a moment. Yes, yes, I'll do that the next day.

Ace, that last line. That hurt like whooping cough.

She was kinda fat and had disco hair,
a mustache and a wicked camel-toe;
she was not too bright and fair
knocked you back with her B.O.

She had crooked teeth and bad breath,
toejam, zits, and worked for very low pay;
addicted to both chronic and meth,
she smoked two packs a day.

Ugly, dumb, foul-smelling and fat
She really funked up the joint.
But she got naked for me, and that
was the whole and entire point.

Monty, is that a poem or part of your wedding vows?

Stopping By Weeds On a Snowy Evening

Whose weeds these are I think I know.
Her house is in the trees, just below;
She will not see me stopping here
To watch her weeds fill her up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer.
Hey, there's a woman involved,
You half-wit, ersatz reigndeer.
Stopping without a farmhouse near
Unobserved, I watch her weeds
And her frozen thirst a'slaked
On the darkest evening of the year.
Damn, a broken stick, it did betray
My general location near the hay.
She gives his hairy bells a shake
And asks if there is some mistake.
Hey, baby, the only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
Yes, her woods are lovely, dark and deep.
And I have lots of time to peep,
And he has miles to go before he sleeps,
And she has miles to go before she sleeps.

^^ way ghey

Pure Fiction

Hanging chads stole our win,
Ohio suppression screwed us again.
Quagmire in a war for oil,
Global warming - oceans boil.
Ozone-eating SUV,
Sheehan - absolute moral authority.

Baghdad museum looted freely,
Koran flushing - print it, quickly!
Osama fiction - he's not real!
Just ask patriot Ward Churchill.
Social Security don't need fixin',
Impeach Bush he's worse than Nixon.

Unilateral cowboyism,
View the world through Nazi prism.
Genocidal tsunami,
Holocost of Japanese.
Thunderdome in the Delta,
Guard memos - finally gottcha!

Super-crook Tom DeLay,
What else do we have to say?

We didn't vote for BusHitler,
He was always goose-stepping
Since the world's been turning...

Worlds Colliding

Introduced my husband to this blog
Just in time for him to read
Strange menfolk talking about my snog
wrapped and wreathed in hairy weed

Have to remind him its not real
'Darling, but its all in jest-'
Still he can barely contain his zeal
to stab you all in the chest

Ace, making the winner the blog's Poet Laureate might be cool. I can't think of another blog that has one. Not even Oliver Willis.

o, biker!
o, soldier!
o, native american!

o, cop!
o, cowboy!
o, construction worker!

o! people of our village,
ye iconic archetypes,
sing to me amid gyrations!

send your harmonies spurging over me
as you weave a tapestry of tales
of life within the young men's christian association

penetrate me with your
timeless percussive beats
set to stories of naval service

Messrs. Felipe, Alex, David, Ray, and Eric
How can you live without Glenn? Without Glenn?
Glenn who now rides in his leathers forever in a world without prejudice or hate

and to hide my sorrow
i've got to be un macho hombre

"It's fun to stay at the YMCA"
indeed.
indeed.

Worlds Colliding was me. Loose shit.

Ode to stranded space explorer

Opening zipper
Anticipation great

Heartbeat quickens
Warm pleasure waits

Mind wanders
Past returns

Why do I try to screw this dead body in the bag with 3rd degree radiation burns?

Fireball, fireball, fireball!
Lightning bolt, lightning bolt, lightning bolt!
My spells bark death like Sgt. Fury's M-16
But do the rest of my "party" know the real me?
The me who wears soft leather, +1 suede?
The woods creature, friend to druid and dryad alike?
The gentle wayfarer who seeks the shadows
Hiding, alone, moving silently (on a roll of less than 80) in my felt boots--
Before backstabbing the surprised bastards for quadruple damage?

Rosie blew me today, will she blow me tomorrow?
Let it be as it may--
Rosie blew me today.

But the taste gives way, to something like boogers mixed with fish--
Let it be as it may...
Rosie blew me today.

Stirring, shifting slowly
Back and forth rolling
Quiet the baby is sleeping!
Ah, there is pressure
Always
A dream, yes that's it
Rancid breath
eating chipmunks again i see
or taco bell
the pressure
What time? little more
Did you pay all the bills?
a dream?
THE PRESSURE
what the hell
morning piss
AAAH
but this may be the best moment
of your day
SIGH

Exploitation ignoble and
warming global,
Gaia has laughed off, many times, worse

But she's met her killer
the thing that'll still her
is earth-rending soul-crushing verse

entitled: Ace has been in Pandora's box.

"The Bells"

Hear the tolling of the bells -
Fucking bells...
What is this thing?
Shut the fuck up, it's night
Why do they scare the shit out of us?
What's so fucking scary about a fucking bell?
Listen
It's just a fucking rusty bell
An annoying fucking rusty bitch of a bell
Listen to that bitch of a bell groan
And the people - ah, the people -
Them that lives up in the steeple,
All alone
Working, working, working
Fucking, fucking, fucking
Dying, dying, dying

No, damn the cocksuckers, they're not alive
They aint human
Just a bunch of fucking ghouls: -
Even Ricky Roma
Ricky needs a lunch bell to go to fucking lunch
I tell him go
I said go already
Go
Get the fuck to lunch you dumb shit
Ding, ding, ding, didn't you hear that?
Go to lunch
Listen to that damn bell
And go to lunch
Fucking cunt bells

Clumsy Girl Reprise

She falls in beauty, in the night,
down wooden stairs, with starry eyes,
and all that's best of dark and bright
pretty much flashes through her head
concussion probably.

One step the more, one rail the less,
she's quite impair'd, with little grace
Wild waves in every raven tress
that softly lightens o'er her face,
covering her eyes so she can't see
where the hell she's going.

And on that cheek and o'er that black eye
So soft, so calm, so purple,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in traction spent,—
A glass in pieces all below,
A foot whose love is innocent.

lauraw's hubby
sounds to be really pissed
don't discount his feelings
they are not to be dismissed

for he is new to our culture
accustomed to flamewars he is not
he does not like me waxing poetic
about laura's thatchy twat

his ire have I raised so
he wants to put a knife into my heart
take it easy there big fella
this flamewar I did not start

no, it was your besotted wifey
who thought herself a muse
and decided to post a weedy poem
after drinking lots of booze

have no fear, there is no danger
your manhood's still intact
I'm sure you're great cuz your wife is too
even if her vag needs to be weed whacked!

Good stuff, Dave in Texas.

compos:

"laura's thatchy twat"

You have a Viking's gift for language.

NK - Thank you from the tip of my horny helmet.

I believe this entire thread of musings would make a fantastic coffee table book. Just put it away when the vicar and his wife come calling!

compos, you have such a reassuring way with words. I'm sure he feels much better now.

I raise my glass to all of you
and offer you this toast
may all you want be the least you get
and a special thank you to our host!

Some of you have made me laugh.
Some have made me think.
But one thoughtful soul inspired us all
By mixing poetry with drink.

Cheers!

have no fear, there is no danger
your manhood's still intact

Oh it's intact and I am thankful
just do me one favor and notify me
should she post a faggy poem in
which she chops down an Oak tree

Right back atcha compos, yer on f'n fire, by the way

In the still of the night
Fartblossom blooms bright
Discreet comforter wave
All smiles, like Mother Sheehan
A tapestry my bowels do weave
Pungent, stings the nostrils
Like "sex panther" gone wild
Chortling at my odiforous civil disobediance
Mexican food, was a good choice
Another waft, gagging ensues
Burning tires and rotting carcass
My wife rolls over and punches me

lol you got it mr. w.

thanks lauraw.

setting with the sun
shuffleboard sticks hung in rack
turning to a deck of playing cards
picture of cruise ship on the back

sipping ginger ale and ice chips
climate controlled indoor air
my bag is hanging out my boxers
resting on orthapedic chair

dentures crushing cashew
suited ten through king
give me one card Ethel darling
oxygen mask starts to sing

bet to my gal a pack of Tums
she raises bag of prunes more
pretty blues eyeballing me
wondering what's the score

last card comes, did I hit?
dagnabit! tonight I might get laid!
royal flush in more ways than one
drew the Ace o Spades!

I will regret that last post, I bet wife is currently composing a poem in which she is a princess warrior slaying purple one-eyed serpents with her mighty sword.

cock the crow cries
cock the crow cries
or is it too substantial
for just a small taste
the hen knows not

Milk, Milk
lemonade
turn around
and fudge is made

"When Lilacs Last in My Back Door Bloomed"

An ode on the death of JFK jr.

When lilacs last in my backdoor bloom'd,
And your private plane droop'd in the western sky in the night,
I mourn'd, to see you and your young bride
Crash into the churning deep.

O powerful fallen Irish star
O to have been entombed with you
O to have died beneath you like Carolyn B
O cruel hands--hold me powerless!
The strong sinews of your fingers on my tender, shaking shoulders

In the swamp in secluded recesses,
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.
Solitary the gay thrush,
Withdrawn to himself, is lord of the settlements,
And sings by himself as prettily as Liberace.

Alas, Kennedys, women, and water
They ne'er do mix
If only you, my love, had preferred whisky and the fair companionship of men.

I cease from my warble for thee,
O comrade lustrous with thick hair and excellent taste in clothes.
It seems to me you lived your life
Like a candle in the wind
Never knowing who to cling to
When the water came closing in.

Like Norma Jean
Before your uncle had her killed.

hah... damnit, some of these are great.

BTW, I think BumperStickerist's bit about the bird at the bakery was hilarious.

Some of the poetry in this thread is absolutely brilliant. I'm in awe of the talent of people like Laura, BBeck and Jack.

YO! Clearly, the American state, with its unelected president, venal Supreme Court, silent Congress,
gutted Bill of Rights and compliant media brings
about a humanitarian disaster of unimaginable scale.

It is quite remarkable that the apparent demise of "anti-Americanism" as a respectable
means of stifling recognition of
American imperialism
brings forth the
essential
Western
imperial
interests. Nevertheless, the pro-Sharon neoconservative cabal can be seen in the light of the
apparent fabrications
which lead to a McCarthyism which threatens everything we hold dear. Let us never forget
that the deal between the
Department of Defense
and Halliburton unit Kellogg, Brown & Root
provides a pretext for the slaughter of thousands of children by Air Force cluster bombs.
FREE MUMIA!!!

Blackness surrounds this wasted land
My heart, like glass, shatters
Daddy grounded me 'cause I maxed out his credit card at Hot Topic
DEATH

thanks, ace -

but in the spirit of full disclosure, I lifted that"Birdy" poem from "Happy Days", it's the show where Ritchie becomes a beatnik.

-------------------------------------------

Running, running
acrid smoke fills my bursting lungs
shouting hoarse curses at my fate
pop-tarts are bunt; its too late

aaarrgh

pop tarts are BURNT

its too

late

the look
languish
lazy upon the mottled skin
made hard by hunger
aching belly
outstretched limb
the dark continent
calls

Manobu

Manobu

pick the skin from your teeth
wash the sin from your plate
good help
is hard to feed

Manobu

manobu

(This one was already crushed by "The Slumberous West" on another blog.)

The Unintelligent Design of Flying Monkeys

For LauraW and Joyce Kilmer

I hope that I shall never see
A pair of wings on a monkey.

An organ grinder could get rich,
With a flying beast to make his pitch.

An ape whose wings make him a pest,
He'll break your windshield with his mess.

A randy chimp, his wings help jump
He spies for shes that he can hump;

Upon whose fur the fleas do flip,
The monkey grins and curls his lip.

Don't ape-shit go on a fool like me,
For writing a poem 'bout a flying monkey.

Some place
Dingy crappy little nowhere place
A failing little cafe in a failing little town,
Say, or a dim little antique shop
A few grey little people
Living their grey little lives
Good godfearing churchgoing folk
They call themselves
The church is the tallest building in town
There is a war memorial in a park
Across from the church -- some forgotten
Boy dead in some forgotten war
But they don't care
These good godfearing churchgoing folk
They don't care
They are farmers and insurance agents
And nurses and mechanics and
Door to door salesmen
They only see dimly beyond the steeple
Of the church which is the real border
Of their grey little town

------------------------------

You have to imagine this poem being written by some Blue State visitor to a place like Nebraska or Wyoming to get the vibe I'm going for here.... Try to imagine Kos visiting Cheyenne, or Juan Cole stepping off the train into Ames, Iowa.

Ode to the Odious

Oh, children of Abraham
To this fair land came
And cast out the poor, opressed
We dare not criticize their Name

I Cry Joooooos!!!

She laid oh so still
Around her the neocons rant
I waited for the autopsy
I told you! She was a plant!

I Cry Theooooocratss!!!!

Dear Leader spends all my money
Its not congress I blame
The Chinese buy all the bonds
The economy flickers as a flame

I Cry Buuuuuussssshhhhh!!!

They have blocked my IP
And they have stilled my voice
But it would have been better
If my Mom had been pro-choice

I Cry Buchaaannnannnn!!!

Has anyone noticed there are no entries from Allah?

Is he still on his honeymoon?

The empty page mocks me
it reviles me in the most vicious ways
"Hey, faggit," the empty page slanders,
"Why don't you stop fagging it up
"and fucking write something already?"

"Fuck you!" I scream at the empty page
tearing hairs from my fev'rish head.
"Yeah I'd bet you'd like that too,"
quoth the empty page. "I pick up that feeling about you.
"You're into that homo-shit, huh?"

"How dare you, Empty Page!"
I rage
impotently.
"Don't have a hissy-fit, Nancy," the Empty Page
says calmly. Then it winks at me.
"That time of the month, huh?"

"I curse you! I reject you!" I scream.
The Empty Page is not rattled.
"I think I'm going to put you in a pretty
little sundress," it tells me. "Then I'm going
to take you out dancin'. Show you off to my friends.
Maybe make you blow them."

"How can I write poetry when you mock me?!
"Please, Empty Page, cast calumnies on me no more!"
"Hey asshole," the Empty Page says puckishly,
"I'm trying to help you, you screeching sissymary.
"Check it out, you've got like three stanzas already."

I look. The Empty Page is right.

The Empty Page mocks me.
Mocks me... into brilliance and eternity.
"Thank you, Empty Page," I say.
"No problem," it says. "Now bend over and get ready
"to take it like a true poet."
I do. It's absolute bliss.

Stinky, Stinky, monkey
hie thee back up the tree
bananas aren't just for breakfast
and monkeys don't eat for free

Stinky, stinky, monkey
thoughts of Bush's nominee
bananas aren't just for breakfast
and monkeys are in the tree

stinky, stinky, monkey
sometimes you spread your knees
bananas aren't just for breakfast
and Trump's hair knows not of fleas

Monty's explaination of his poem catapults it into a whole other realm of bad pretentious poetry.

Here i sit,with muscles flex'n,giv'n birth,to another tex'n

Not the empty page
But the empty Valu Rite bottle
Is what mocks Ace:
His muse is based on ethanol
Ninety proof or better
It should burn when lit
Like his crappy poem

Feels like a good time to repost "The Donkey."

"Arise, Conscience, Arise!"

In my sullen moments
From the corner of my eye
My conscience unloads its psychic cargo
And I begin to cry

Tears that spread like morning dew,
or fall, perchance, like driving rain
A moist reminder of my constant sorrow
and my re-occuring pain.

Crying for
The children, who have seen their paradise lost
as their fingers work textile looms
Crying for
the rainforests burning like matchsticks
As humans demand more room

Crying for
The indigenous peoples
their cultures raped by the West
Crying for
The women who have seen their rights aborted
by Men who claim they know whats best

Crying for
the lovers who can not marry
for the curse of chromosomes
Crying for
our Melanin hued brothers
society forces to call prisons "homes"

Crying for
the pollution which
despoils Gaia's fertile womb
Crying for
the dignified dying
who can't find peace in the tomb

Am I the only one shedding tears?
Do I cry alone?
Is the pain I'm feeling communal?
Or is it mine alone?

I know one day the light will shine
On those with less accepting minds
Our spirit is righteous, our cause reality
The future is our time.

Until that glorious day arrives
When our new consciousness gives our actions pause
My eyes will continue crying tears
that are united in common cause!

Jack,

It should be a requirement that all these poems end with an exclamation point.

So which is it to be
Too many decisions to make
Too many choices
Every choice has ramifications
   unexpected consequences
      unforseen outcomes
A butterfly flaps its wings in Central Park
And the weather changes in Beijing
This could be a matter of life or death
A matter of philosophy really
Or of metaphysics more properly
This question of (maybe) life or death

So which is it to be
Boxers briefs or nothing at all

I'm with ya on that Skinbad. The exclamation point seals the deal.

PS: I started a new blog. Click on my name and it should send you there. It only has 3 entries, but what the hell.

To Michael Moore
aka Ode to a Fat Fuck

Like a brittle autumn leaf
No longer clinging to
Its thorny keep,
I will crush you with my jacketed fist
And let the hurricane force
Of fifty million gentle breezes
Scatter all that you were.
And then have little nanobots
sodomize each blubbery little piece.

I can't resist posting this crappy poem:

Wave your black flag for Sacco and Vanzetti
Two "swarthy types" The Man put down
They couldn't have two anarchists around
So they set a trap, baited with spaghetti.

The club is called "Zuzu's Petals"
In the usual ironic hipster fashion
Used to be a grunge pit back in the 90's
Now given over to some post-industrial
Goth slough of despond
Smells like the inside of a tire
Patrons try hard to be vampires
Dark and dangerous
Manage only to look sallow and worn out
Vaguely desperate and needy
Girls too young to be out
With men too old to be taking them
Tattoos crawl out of collars and
The armholes of shirts
And scar the ankles of the women
Like a portwine stain
They are all pierced with more than
Cheap jewelry
They are pierced with shallow angst
I wish to say, Lighten up already
But I pass on
Because no one would listen anyway
And I don't like the music

My Soul Cries Out To e e cummings

cry
stumble
tumble
fall
arise

sing
chant rap
folk
ragtime
silence

awake
run play eat talk
sleep

work
carry
go
bring
come
rest

birth
feeble strong
frail
death

I guess spacing is not allowed. Now no one will recognize my true genius.

Ode to Joe Biden
(an original poem)

You have all of the virtues I dislike
and none of the vices I admire

You stumble over the truth from time to time
but unlike most you pick yourself up and hurry off
as if nothing has happened

Unfortuanately it is not your end, it is not even the end of your beginning but perhaps
it is the beginning of your end.

Wings of Stone

Like Sophocles unbounded
O'er blades of uncouth distain
Ransom'd to nonce guttony
'Neath shores of broken eagle shells

Okay, now imagine there are no periods, only spaces. You can if you try.

cry
..................stumble
............tumble
........fall
Arise

Sing
..................Chant
...........................................rap folk
..........ragtime
Silence

Awake
.....Run........................... play eat..............talk
Sleep

Work
..........Carry
......................go
................................bring
........................................come
Rest

Birth
..................................Feeble strong
..........................................frail
Death

Tongueboy:

You need to use the nonbreaking space character("nbsp", prefixed by an ampersand (&) and followed by a semicolon (;)). This will allow you to indent your verse in the proper
    poetic
        style

"Wheel of Fortune" , Sally Ride, heavy metal, suicide
Foreign debts, homeless vets, AIDS, Crack, Bernie Goetz
Hypodermics on the shores, China's under martial law
Rock and Roller Cola Wars, I can't take it anymore

A Walk Down the Aisle with a Pedophile
Or A Love Poem to My 6th Grade Teacher
by Michael Shaeffer

I got the skill, I got the steady nerves
I handed in my homework, and conjugated all my verbs
So don’t let society tell you that our passion is perversive
‘cuz you got curves for days
like my lowercase ks when I practice my cursive

My loins have become a towering inferno
I am burnin’ up for you, Mrs. Mary Kay Letourneau
Word is that you and your husband
have been arguin’ and spattin’
So lemmee just give you a little twist on some conjugated Latin:
veni, vidi, vici, and Vili

The principal may call our relationship silly
But he’s no more than a hard-linin’ hater,
Cuz I’m only in sixth grade, but
I’m hung like an 10th grader!

That’s a sophomore, woman.

The court will call what you’ve done “rape,”
but don’t you dare be sorry
It’s just because I’m barely 12; it’s only statutory.

I’ll save up all my allowances so I can post your bail
And if that won’t work, I’ll marry you when you get out of jail.
They say when you play with a pre-pubescent,
you gotta pay the penance
And your lawyer says you’re lookin’ at
a seven- to ten-year sentence
So when I’m 22, you’ll only be…43.
What do you say, Miss Mary Kay, oh won’t you marry me?
We can live happily ever after once you’re free,
and that’s no fooling
As long as you can promise me hours
of one-on-one home-schooling.
Oh, Mary Kay, what can I say? I can’t get you off my mind.
You gotta, gotta do your part to see that no child is left behind.

Ode To a Misfit – Reprise

Should we have invited her, should we
not? Oh God did we really have to?
I suppose we should have. I don’t
know if it’s really a big deal
or not.

What if she asks us why? That
would be just like her sheesh. What
would we say? The truth. She can’t
handle the truth. I heard the truth is
out there. Somewhere.

Listen, the gravel underneath her heels
grates just like gravel, underneath her
heels. She’s probably pondering role
playing, sword-playing more like.
Something retarded.

What’s that fascination with monkeys all
about anyway? I mean, what’s up with that?
Does it have something to do with ID?

She’s coming up now, but slowly, as
if she were trying to make up her mind.
What’s that thing she’s chewing on? Is that
a toothpick? It almost looks like bone. It’s
something that’s for damn sure.

She’s knocking on the door, quick get
me a drink. Make it a double, no a
triple. What the hell is that toothpick?

LOL. Leave it to a Texan to know that people take raccoon penis bones and turn them into toothpicks.

Betcha the New Yorkers didn't know that.

Later,
bbeck

Thanks, Monty. BTW, your poetic genius is wasted on this generation.

Now that the moment is lost, I unveil the new and improved:

My Soul Cries Out To e e cummings

cry
                             stumble
                       tumble
                fall
Arise

Sing
                                   Chant
                                                                                     rap folk
                   ragtime
Silence

Awake
         Run                                             play eat                      talk
Sleep

Work
                   Carry
                             go
                                 bring
                                           come
Rest

Birth
                                           Feeble strong
                                                   frail
Death

care for a limerick? THERE ONCE WAS A GUY NAME GORE.WHO WAS CONSITERED A BORE.TRIED TO STEAL THE ELECTION,AND FOUND HIS COLLECTION.WAS,NT ENOUGH TO START A GOOD SNORE

bbeck, first time I ever saw one I asked the guy "what the hell is that"? and after he told me I said "what the hell is it doing in your mouth"?

Dark and foul this tunnel
Walls seem to be closing in
Cannot breathe
Must break free
Would scream if I could
I hate being a gerbil

bbeck, first time I ever saw one I asked the guy "what the hell is that"? and after he told me I said "what the hell is it doing in your mouth"?

Har! I'd been told about the practice before, but the first time I saw one was when my husband's bomber instructor was passing it around at a party and asking people if they knew what it was. Not only did I figure it out, but people were IMPRESSED that I knew. :)

Later,
bbeck

Along came a liger forelorn
Between hunger and love he was torn
Crammed down some chips
Past his black liger lips
Then got jiggy with his friend the unicorn

"raccoon penis bones"

Huh. No wonder I couldn't get a patent on that racoon ED pill.

and you call yourself a square 'mongst circular shapes...

Racoon Penis Bones

That's the name of a band if ever I saw one!

AN ODE TO THAT GIRL WHO SAT TWO ROWS IN FRONT OF ME IN FIFTH GRADE

Your braces glint
Like the dulcet beams of the new dawn
Your shell-like ears
Only slightly marred by playground dirt
Your lovely knees are skinned and raw
From those stupid metal roller skates
And your tongue
-- peeking out betwixt your embrace'd teeth --
Is slightly purpled from the bic you bit
Too hard and ruptured earlier in the day
Your long silky hair is brown and tied back
And it flips when you turn your head
That flip turns my heart
I watch and wish you'd talk to me
Or even notice me
I'll charley-horse your arm at recess
As a token of my love

You Think You All That, But You Ain'

Looking rather trendy
All in black,
"All blinged out" as the kids might say,
Looking very...well
Let us be politic and say urban.
Your sartorial sense obviously shaped
By the celebrity magazines
That crowd the newsstands like brightly-colored tumors;
A vacant smile prepared for camera flashes
That reflect nothing in their harsh white glare.
You spent a week's wage on your shoes.
A hundred-dollar haircut and
Nighttime shades with designer frames...
But for all this a vacancy where a man should be.
A vacuum filling out the overpriced clothes;
Empty head to produce the empty talk and emtpy laugh.
You do not move air in front of you
And you leave no wake behind.

Excellent posts are those last two Monty. Were I gay and you to buy me a few drinks to get me tipsy, I just might let you into my pants.

compos:

Flattery ain't gettin you nowhere, pal. I am paid for my services, and I don't care how much you try to sweet talk me out of it. Cash on the barrelhead; it's the American way.

and you call yourself a square 'mongst circular shapes...

Well, technically, everyone ELSE is a square, but that just didn't fit the rhyme.

Should I have my poetic license revoked? :)

Later,
bbeck

Ain't it always the way. The stars think they need to be paid for everything. Well okay for you mister high and mighty poetry princess, just be that way.

Should I have my poetic license revoked? :)

ain't no crime in this joint

Can you believe I get paid to write shit not half as good as this. Stick it to the man.

Jackson, Benjamin, Franklin
They all be cock blockin' whore
They Monty's fat best friend
In the way when I'm tryin' ta score

The Prologue

Whan that Ayce's arid throate did parch
The draught of lager he hath perced to the hearte,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which Fosters engendered in his core.
Then his Plymouth Furye squeeked a sharp breeth
And inspired Ayce to holt fast the brakes
He mowed down croppes and longe roadsignes
And hath rammed half his cows though on the ruine
And smale fowelies who maken no more melodye.
Then he slepen al the nyght with an open ye
(so prickethed hem Ayce about his Plymouth Furye);
Thanne longen folk to goon to polyce,
For to seken to limit his bendyrs straunge;
To take hem away from his surly blondes.
And specially take him from every shires' ende
Of New Yorke to Cleveland where he will wende.
The hooly blisful martir had he disgusted,
That hem hath holpen to seke whan he was totally busted.
So he goeth the pub three sessions per day,
Then an alley in south Cleveland he lay.
Unredy to wenden on pilsner legs...
But maybe to Yorke with ful stout kegs!
At nyght he came to a youth hostelrye
With nyne and twenty young blonde ladies.
Of sondry folk, lovelie and talle,
In felaweshipe with Pygmies were they alle.
Men from Yorke they wolden't ryde,
Their organ chambres were much too wyde.
And wel they found out he cameth not from east,
And bedded him shortly, whan the sonne was to reste.
So Sadde they were with him now goon,
He thrue them a twenty and drove toward the dawn.

rdbrewer:

Ye gods and little fishes, I am impressed! Chaucerian parody is no easy thing!

Emotions: That Spock Was One Bad Motherfucker
(found poetry category)

I. 14.87 MINUTES

[Scotty] The engines are running wild. No way to get at them.
We should reach maximum overload in 15 minutes.
[Spock] I would calculate 14.87 minutes, Mr. Scott.
[Scotty] Those few seconds will not make any difference
because you and I and the rest of the crew
will no longer be here to bandy it back and forth.
This thing is going to blow up,
and there's nothing in the universe can stop it.

II. POETIC LANGUAGE

[Scotty] I hope Mr. Spock knows what he's doing.
Scott to Bridge.
[Spock] Go ahead, Mr. Scott.
I've sealed off the aft end of the crawl way,
and I've positioned explosive separator charges
to blast me clear if I rupture the magnetic bottle.
I'm so close to the flow now,
and it feels like ants crawling all over my body.
Mr. Scott, I suggest you refrain
from any further subjective descriptions.
You now have 10 minutes and 19 seconds
in which to perform your task.

III. DO NOT TOUCH

[Spock] Lieutenant Rahda, arm the pod jettison system.
Aye, sir.
I'll jettison the pod at the first sign of trouble.
Not until my order.
Yes, sir. Warp 11.9.

IV. THE ICE COLD HOMBRE

[Scotty] It's stuck!
It's stuck! Push the button!
[Spock] Please continue, Mr. Scott.
Don't be a fool! Push the button!
It's your last chance! Don't be sentimental!
Push it! I'm gonna die anyway.
Please continue.
It's loose! But there's no time! Push the button!
[Rahda] Nine seconds, eight seconds, seven seconds,
six seconds, five seconds, four seconds, three seconds,
two seconds, one --
Mr. Spock, now!
- Warp 14.1. Warp 14. - [Beep]
Magnetic forces steady.
Warp 13.9 and dropping.
Mr. Scott, you have accomplished your task.
You might at least say thank you.
For what purpose, Mr. Scott?

V. THE ASS CHEWIN'

What is it in you humans that requires
an overwhelming display of emotion in a situation such as this?
Two men pursue the only reasonable course of action,
and yet you feel that something else is necessary.

I've been laughing my ass off at some of this stuff. I could never write anything like this. You guys are geniuses. Anyway, I found this poem at another site. It won 1st place. I certainly am not entering it in the contest, but I thought some people might get a good laugh from it. I hope I don't get my ass in a bind for posting already published material.

Blaming of Parts by Alan Ferrell

Today we have blaming of parts. Yesterday,

That piece of shit M-16 we fuckin' tol' you wouldn't work didn't. And Tomorrow
we’ll fuckin' plant Waziscowicz, L J, 042 36 3842, who we found deadern' a mackerel cleaning rod slammed down the barrel of his piece no spent brass nowhere so he like didn't even get off round one before the Dinks popped him fuckin' tol' him you slather that goddam Lubricant comma Semiautomatic all over the fuckin' Bolt it'll fuckin' lock up on you tol' him that shit was no good would he lissen, fuck, no… But today,

we have blaming of the parts. The nipa palm

casts a sinuous, elegant neck back to peer wistfully up at the sun—languid tropism—laying bare a polished, ebony gorge wayward caress of errant breeze riffling the neighboring gardens…

And Today we have blaming of the parts.

This is the fuckin' Buffer Assembly which ain't worf' a fuck but make your weapon give off that spung-buzzzz sound instead of manly smack in the arm recoil like God meant it for to be these things are gonna have to be yanked out by the Battalion Armorer and replaced with the new Buffer Assembly as it have been determined dur'n recent combat oeprations that oh-riginal Buffer allow the piece to function at a rate of fire sufficient it will burn up the Barrel and seize rounds in the Chamber located here when operated as fast as scared shitless empty head sweat soaked fat fingered wishes he was sommeres else nineteen year old imbecile can trigger it. And this

is the Upper Sling Swivel which you will see is completely fuckin' useless because even if it did make any fuckin' sense to sling this bitch the pistol grip hang up on your Load Bearing Equipment so you're gonna have to come up with some kind catch me fuck me sling but do not you fuckin' let me see you chopping up those A-21 Cargo Straps they cost your Government eighteen dollar and fifty fuckin' cent apiece and you're gonna sign a Survey of Charges for eighteen dollar and fifty fuckin' cent do I catch you chopping up one of my A-21 Cargo Straps to string to that goddam Upper Sling Swivel. And this is the 30-Round Magazine which in your case you have not got. The pallid fronds

of the nipa palm hang motionless with langorous indecision, honied hesitancy

which in your case you have not got.

And this is the Selector Switch which is always released with an easy flick of the thumb and do not you let me fuckin' see you fuckin' filing down that Detent to make a silent safety and be quick drawing you'll blow your fuckin' head clean off it will happen to you and doan worry abt that audible click when you flick off that safety. You can do it quite easy if you have any strength in your thumb. The airy summit

of the nipa with her perpetual nod of insipid assent invites warily, gingerly, coquettishly, never letting anyone see her fuckin' filing down that Detent And this as you can see is the Bolt. The purpose of this

is to open the Breech as you can see only this one won't open shit on account of it's machined to too fine a fuckin' tolerance and the slightest smudge of rust it rain 28 day for 29 in the fuckin' jungle it will lock up tighter'n Dick's hatband so these will all have to be yanked out by the Battalion Armorer and ree-placed with the A-1 Modification chromed camming surface and do not you let me fuckin' see you smooching that goddam Lubricant comma Semiautomatic all over it like I tol' you already. The Charging Handle—see how it moves rapidly backward and forward?—will retract the Spring and hold it at the rearward limit of its travel: they call it Stopping the Travel. And rapidly backward and forward ungainly, chattering, wiry little monkeys scamper up the serrated stalk of that slender nipa and they are all gonna have to be yanked out by the Battalion Armorer.

They call it Stopping the Travel.

They call it Stopping the Travel: it is perfectly easy if you have any strength in your thumb. And the Firing Pin Retainer Clip fifty cent piece of cheap hardware store shit that you will lose in the tall grass and will drop in the mud and will fingerfuck in the dark and then whats you gots is not a Rifle US M-16A1 magazine fed gas operated air cooled selective fire but a fuckin' broomstick on account of without that gizmo it can't not fire nuffin' and won't not nuffin' else fit in that little hole. And the

volupturary nipa palm

in a silent plié with all the ungainly, chattering, wiry little monkeys skittering backward and forward along her arching back

For today we have blaming of the parts.

Sent as a joke to Pen Pushers Publications, this poem is the 2005 winner of the Wergle Flomp humor poetry contest sponsored by Winning Writers. It is a parody of Henry Reed's "Naming of Parts". Author Alan Farrell received a cash prize of $1,190.

Anybody else think that last poem sucked ass, even as a lark?
*raising hand tentatively, looking for agreement*

Vinny was a liar
Vinny was a thief
Vinny went to my house
And stole a side of beef.

Revenge I considered
Revenge I mulled
I went to Vinny's house
And fucked him in the skull.

Amy Spade's Lament After O'Hara reads: "At 12:15 you have not called, and I've been walking around in my underwear for five hours expecting you. I will lie alone tonight, troubled. You are avoiding all of your indecision, the entangling mire of your love. You will just stay away and that is how it will end, not with the exasperation or a revelation but with a smolder. A drizzle. A pale, ridiculous something! A troubled heartbeat. So that alone, tonight, I will not sleep."

"Rifle US M-16A1 magazine fed gas operated air cooled selective fire"

Ahhh, basic training nostalgia :)

This is my rifle
This is my gun
This is for shooting
This is for fun

lauraw:

I second that. But hey, you can't go by me: I write poop poetry, boobie poetry, and blank verse baseball poetry. What the hell do I know? I even wrote a cheap-shot vodka poem about Ace.

"CONCRETE"

ccccccccCCCCCCCCCCCCCcccccccccccccccccc

die die die DIE DIE DIE die DIE die DIE

                   HateHateHateHateHate

                   LoveLoveLoveLoveLove

       imustnotseeimusthearoriwillnotbe

9999999999999999999    look

9999999999999999          for

999999999999                 the

99999999                        end

99999              AGONY AGONY

99              AGONY AGONY AGONY

9                     AGONY

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&1111111111111111&&

&&&&&&&&&&&77777777777777&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

&&&&&&&&&&111111111111111111111&&&&&&&&

&&&&&&&&1111111111111111111111111&&&&&&

&&&&&&&&&&&&77777777777777777&&&&&&&&&&

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&11111111111&&&&&&&&&&&&

&&&&for&&&&&&&&&&&&&&we&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

&&&&&&&&&&&&&are&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

&&&&&&but&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&dross&&&&&&&&&

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

&&&&&&&&&&&a&&&&&&&black&&&&&&&pen&&&&&

&&&&on&&&&&&&&black&&&&&&&&paper&&&&&&&

&&&&&&&&&&fuck&&&&&&&&me&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Good Lord!!!

Yeah, but Monty.
Could you for one second write a poem which you meant in all sincerity, that began with,

What kind of a skeeza-

You know what I'm getting at? Art is dead. And "ART" killed it.
Sweets, you could be the next Shel Silverstein, but waaay better.

Brewfan, at my last family get-together, somebody made an ass of themselves (yeah, it runs in the family), and in the ensuing laughter, my little brother (a Marine) said, "This is my family. There are many just like it, but this one is mine..."

Causing more peals of lunatic laughter of course...

lauraw, that poem sucked canal water.

it'll probably win an award.

Y'know, this whole contest really isn't fair.
Mine wasn't meant to be awful. It was unintentionally bad. Which comes from a whole different place you know.

A horrifying place called bumbling drunken sincerity.

Though it seems that I often make a spectacular public ass of myself, and am in fact quite the twit; in my defense, I am also shallow, coarse, and stupid.

We can't all be Buster Keaton. Somebody has to be the Keystone Cops.

Oh Mother Sheehan, the spark of my light.
No Chomsky ever parsed your innate language.
Your moral entrenchment helps to move US out of the morass.
Use your sickle to cut down that Bush.
Use your hammer to nail that Dick.

Oh Mother Sheehan, we are all your children.
Protect US from our own words, floating like flotsam in the Jew controlled media.
Show US how to liberate our poor children from military servitude.
Cover US as we shed our ratty cloak of patriotism.
Let US smoke some weed and listen to some Joan Baez.

Oh Mother Sheehan, your spark was so brief.
Your universal flame was blown out by a hurricane.
Ignite our passion again.

We weep, we weep.
For summer is gone and our moment of glory brief.

I am shallow, coarse
and stupid, and yet these twits
watch me like a hawk

Ode To the Nature of Time

As unto the waves upon the battered beaches,
So is time the gatekeeper among the Two Perfections.
Endlessly rippling forth between two great systems,
Like the ocean, the shore, those most flawless of forms:
Chaos and Order.

Only their shadowy reflections abound,
Imperfect forms, they exist all around,
A shadowy synechdoche,
A caraciture is all we see,
A cartoon of that perfection,
That, merely, is what it be:
Riotous Chaos, Saturnine Order,
The unknown and known;
The future, the yore.

Flowing like a river, one to another,
Like sexual relations between two big lovers.
From one perfection, it passes, onto the other.
Briefly flitting past, a chimera, a blip on our radar.
No firmament exists, only constant motion.
Time is merely a surf
On the edge of the ocean.
The gatekeeper, time, is a merely a wave.
A pigment of our imagination
That colors us to our graves.
Surfing inexorably, inexorably forward,
We surf forward enlessly
On a juggernaut of a surfboard.
On a self-propagating wave.
On a wave of realignment!

We skate on that boundary
Among the Two Perfections.
Never waiting, always surfing.
For that is the connection;
That is the key!
In this zone of imperfection,
Between land and ocean,
There exists imperfect time,
And that is where we be.

And this place, this surfboard
Where the rubber meets the road.
Between two great lovers
That is where we grow.
That is where we grow.

A horrifying place called bumbling drunken sincerity.

Think you're the only one? I am intimidated by the poetry posted on this thread.

Still, I'll make another entry:

Ah, wee mousie,

Ya didna know that your plans could be upset by Karl Rove.

Your winter nest, all well-prepared for cold, and snow, and now upset by the plow of Halliburton.

Now ye scurry to survive.

The best laid plans, of mice, and men,

Gang oft aglae.

"This is my family. There are many just like it, but this one is mine..."

Ha! So true. In my family we say "You can pick your nose and you can pick your toes but you can't pick your relatives!"

There may not be much difference
Between me and Margaret Cho
If you measure our audience

There may not be much difference
Between Kanye West and David Duke
If we check the color of their sheets

There may not be much difference
Between Bill Clinton and Elvis Pressley
If we look in their bathrooms and medicine cabinets

There may not be much difference
Between this poem and one by Alfred Lord Tennyson
In terms of the alphabet each uses

There may not be much difference
Between a whore house and St Peter's Basillica
They both orbit the sun and have mass

We're all water from different rivers
That's why it's so easy to meet
We're all water in a vast, vast ocean
That the Man keeps pissing down his leg.

lauraw:

Could you for one second write a poem which you meant in all sincerity, that began with,

What kind of a skeeza-

Well, let's just give it a shot, shall we?

--------------------------

What kind of skeeza-
Wait...listen
A woman of intelligence, and sexy,
And a rowdy sense of fun;
Her own mother called her ghetto trash
You know
Back when she still lived there
In that falling-down row house
With the barren yard.
She ran with the boys because
That's what girls did to get along
They had to go along.
It was Tyrell that put her on the needle,
And he gave her two children
He didn't want and he left her
Living only for the needle and
The daily soaps. The state took
Her babies away -- best thing,
But she she loved them then and
Loves them still, and is glad they're
Gone so they can't see her
As she is now.
The boys wanted her then,
they called her honey and mama
And honey-hips and said Oooo Weee!
but now they just laugh when she stumbles by
In that heroin haze
And they call out
What kind of skeeza-

Some of these rip-offs are recognizable, others aren't. Can we have a reckoning of which are all-original, and which are modified?

Awesome Monty

What kind of skeeza,
use a rusty tweeza?

Thank you. Good night.

ok, I ripped off three.

I weep for Cedarford is from the first stanza of Adonais, Shelly's elegy for John Keats.

Clumsy Girl - Reprise I stole from Byron's She walks in beauty like the night

And of course Ode To a Misfit – Reprise I stole from bbeck.

I think I saw rdbrewer use something by Frost.

Splendor sartorial tattoo splashing
Clawing crawling reaching slashing
John Stuart Mill penning clashing
Detroit Rock City sliding crashing

Oh, Bard!
Oh, Litha!
Oh, Homer!

Come limping home to Olympus
Ace bandage wrapping up gimpus
No clash, no bang, only whimpus
Bulbous retarded clattering chimpus

Leads
Us
Into
Eternal
Darkness

Oh, Marthe!
Oh, Maggie!
Oh, Abe!

Lead follow climb soar heaven home
Richie Potsie Ralph Jerome
Waiting watching pocket comb
Ascend majesty starlight shalom

Leads
Us
Into
Eternal
Light

Gibbering chimps swinging tires
Imperial Khan kindling fires
Black yellow brown red pyres
Gnome pulling us from mires

Lead
Us
Into
Eternal
Salvation

I've had a distaste for poetry most of my life. I'm too stupid or lazy to dig under the surface to understand hidden metaphors and just wtf the poet is really saying.

All of you have written really good stuff here. Funny or serious, I enjoyed reading it all. Some jumped from the original premise and wrote some fantastic poems.

compos:

Even my "serious" stuff isn't so serious. Poetry -- to me -- is kind of like a sneeze; it just happens by itself. I jot down poems all the time, and they're just as lousy as most of the stuff I do here: just idle little thoughts, mental images, funny scenes, vulgar doggerel. I'm not trying to create art (or even Art, much less ART). Sometimes I get off a good one ("Night Game" is one of my personal favorites), but mostly they're just fun junk.

And that's why I wish more people would write poetry. Even bad lovelorn-fourteen-year-old-girl has-a-crush-on-the-football-captain poetry. Even vulgar poop poetry and odes to the stand-up man in my slacks. Even the most serious of poetry has an element of fun about it, a sense of a puzzle, of wordplay and rhythm. I think that's why everyone here gets such a kick out of it.

And let's face it, poetry is kind of like sex: you don't have to be good at it to like it.

compos:

Even my "serious" stuff isn't so serious. Poetry -- to me -- is kind of like a sneeze; it just happens by itself. I jot down poems all the time, and they're just as lousy as most of the stuff I do here: just idle little thoughts, mental images, funny scenes, vulgar doggerel. I'm not trying to create art (or even Art, much less ART). Sometimes I get off a good one ("Night Game" is one of my personal favorites), but mostly they're just fun junk.

And that's why I wish more people would write poetry. Even bad lovelorn-fourteen-year-old-girl has-a-crush-on-the-football-captain poetry. Even vulgar poop poetry and odes to the stand-up man in my slacks. Even the most serious of poetry has an element of fun about it, a sense of a puzzle, of wordplay and rhythm. I think that's why everyone here gets such a kick out of it.

And let's face it, poetry is kind of like sex: you don't have to be good at it to like it.

Sigh. Damned comment lag. Sorry for the double post.

I had a dream
That I wrote a poem
And won all the money
In the Indian Ocean

Last night I dreamed my house burned down,
And a hacker from Hong Kong hijacked my computer.
Woke me up at three, hyperventilating
And I still had that crusty poison ivy thing
All over my face.
But it's Friday! Fish sticks in the cafeteria!

That's not really a poem. I just wanted to share.

So you're saying poetry is mental masturbation then?

a sense of a puzzle like a 'key' in a 'lock' - metaphors for genatalia.

of wordplay talkin' dirty, eh? wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

and rhythm got it.

poetry is kind of like sex or a LOT like sex if we break it down like this.

Which is rather disturbing considering you wrote a poem about a beautiful turd.

The baseball I understand, although thinking of baseball has never worked as a 'deterrent' if you know what I mean.

Okay, so let's see what I can come up with.

Which is rather disturbing considering you wrote a poem about a beautiful turd.

I try to share a beautiful moment with you and you have to go and insult me. Bastard.

Romona McGurn had the locker next to mine
She made it a point to never be there
When I was
Three girls followed her like a comet-tail
Cindy Shelley and Fran
Twittering sparrows behind her always
She wore this perfume (a little too much)
White Shoulders I think
Or Sweet Honesty
She would dab it behind her ears
(Lovely tender skin behind the ears)
Her dad was some kind of big wheel in town
A lawyer or a politician of some kind
She could take her pick of friends
But it was pure luck that my locker
Was next to hers
Kind of like a small gift from God
To let me see her and smell her perfume
And hear her talking to her friends
She died in a car accident
In our senior year
Funny how her perfume still lingered
Even after she was gone
White Shoulders I think
Or Sweet Honesty

Mouth watering chocolate pie
So inviting there where you rest
Still fresh and warm and whole
Dare I chance to be the first?
Moving closer your delicious scent
Consumes me.
As my ravenous yearning swells
I bend down and whisper my secret desire
To feel your mocha smoothness
On my tongue.
The silence only stokes the fires
Of forbidden hungers within me.
Staring straight into you
I dip my finger into your velvety smoothness
So fresh, so inviting.
It is only you and I and my longing
Overwhelms me as I bring
My moistened fingers to my tongue.
Unable to resist I bring a little
Slice of heaven to my lips
And begin to devour you.
Oh sweet luscious embodiment
Of my ravenous appetite!
As you melt into my mouth
How I long to fully consummate
This ambrosial encounter!
Nay! I must resist the temptation
To ruin the purity of your virginal chocolaty goodness.
Rather I cover you in my own
Special meringue
And hide our divine encounter
So that you and I alone share our secret,
My succulent and dark lover.
I am forever ruined for any other my sweet!

Wow Monty. Beautiful, depressing, and a fine tribute.

Talk about your manic depressives. I had nearly pitched a tent from my chocolate pie poem and now I feel like a button on a fur coat.

Still, wonderful writing.

compos:

Hey, don't put yourself down: now I'm hungry for pie. Chocolate pie. *Sniff*. Your poem touched me, man.

About Romona: that's really her first name, but I changed her last name. I was just thinking about her last night, and about how all I can really remember about her is the smell of her perfume. It's just a funny thing to remember about someone, I guess.

Plus, the pretension factor: love notes from geeky teenage boys to gorgeous chicks who don't even know they exist is the very definition of pretension.

I wrote a song.
It's poetic enough.
Here goes.

60's Hippie Reprise

I'm gonna dust off my smiley-face button
and my old peace sign
drag the clothes out of the moldy trunk
that smells of parsley-sage-rosemary-and-thyme
and my old Volkswagon bus that's been rustin' out back...
well, it'll just stay rustin' out back
but I've got my Volvo fired up
to take the 'man' down one last time.

I may be an aging hippie
but I know what's good for you
I'm one of the enlightened ones,
just ask my old guru
and I won't give up until the world sees things
the way I do
I may be an aging hippie,
but I know what's good for you.

The free love may be long gone,
but the flower power's fine
and we've turned those 'high' ideals from Woodstock
into dollar signs
and we've fought for the diversity
to put white men back in line (way back)
but somethin's smellin' fishy,
so it's patchouli time.

I may be an aging hippie
but I know what's good for you
I'm one of the enlightened ones,
just ask my old guru
and I won't give up until the world sees things
the way I do
I may be an aging hippie,
but I know what's good for you.

All wars are fought for money
and occupying lands
so against the Zion chickenhawks
we'll make our courageous stand
though many of the regulars
have dropped out of the band
Joan and Jane are still on board
and we've picked up 'Mom' Sheehan

I may be an aging hippie
but I know what's good for you
I'm one of the enlightened ones,
just ask my old guru
and I won't give up until the world sees things
the way I do
I may be an aging hippie,
but I know what's good for you.

"Say, bro, don't bogart..."

"Man, look at how swollen my feet are getting!
I think my Birkenstocks are going to bust a strap!"

"Dude, you wanna wave this big ol' rainbow flag a while? My back's killing me..."

(Banjo music fades...)

"www.ace.mu.nu"

In the time between springs awakening
and summers slumberous wail,
The shadows leapt back at our advances.
In the space between autumns coloring
and winters freezing gail
We hid in threads unwilling to take chances.

Why chance an idle comment
Mis-typed or ill construed?
Why chance that our thoughts
would be considered rude?
Why chance anything at all
until we are sure we would be understood?
And then Ace's HQ joined mu.nu.

In the echoes of a keyboard click
the sky surrendered sounds,
audible proof of our own existence.
In the glow of the monitor
our souls, illuminated and unbound,
bridged the gaps and spanned every distance.

Distances between right and wrong
and between left and right,
Distances between pretenders,
and those who blog all night.
Distances between Smirnoff drinkers
and those who prefer Val-U-Rite.
Transcended when Ace's HQ joined mu.nu.

In the heartbeat of a moment and the
twinkling of a newborn's eye, there rose
a place devoted to our vices.
From drug ravaged ham sandwiches,
to a vikings favorite pose
we even learned to fear our hammer's slices.

Slicing like a man
expecting full value for his pay.
Slicing like Kevin Spacey
walking his dog at the end of the day.
Slicing like a man named Willis
attacking a fish fillet.
Exposed when Ace's HQ joined mu.nu.

As the hard drive churns,
and our favorites are saved
we wonder if his muse derives from klonopin.
For in the wording of a top ten,
or rants that cascade like waves,
all seems to tumble down with reckless abandon.

Abandoned like a D&D player
waiting for a homecoming date
Abandoned like a T-shirt sale
that didn't pull it's weight
Abandoned like his first slogan "Your daily two minute
interactive cryptofascist cybernetic hate!".
Yet here we are at Ace's HQ on mu.nu.

I would like to officially move that Monty be disqualified from this contest for showing unmistakable signs of talent -- an affront to the Ace O Spades Lifestyle™ and an egregious insult to the morons that frequent this blog. His repeated and flagrant flouting of the rules has become intolerable.

I mean, read the shit that you posted and then read Monty's poems. Do you feel like a putz? I thought so.

Do we have a second?

It was a rare find
That Jacket
An academic's dream
A tweedy corduroy number
Patches on the elbows
A faint smell of Cherry Orchard pipesmoke
From whoever had owned it before
Made me feel smart
Snappy and worldly you know
Cost me thirty bucks and worth every dime
But at the grocery store the other night
I'm standing in line with my liter
Of Diet-Rite cola
And my copy of People
And making goo-goo eyes at a baby
Some fat lady was holding in front of me
And the baby blinks and grins
And then scrunches up his face
As if he's about to ask a deep question
Or load his didies more likely
And then lets loose a bellowing sneeze
And launches a pearlescent wad of infant mucus
Directly onto the lapel of my corduroy Jacket
I make the mistake of wiping at it
You can never get snot off of corduroy, man
The fat lady never turned around
And the kid kept smiling his dopy smile
I gave the Jacket to the Salvation Army
For nothing
No good to me with snot on the lapel
It'll be there to the end of the world

Does that re-establish my AoS bona-fides, Michael? I'm trying, honest!

See what I mean? Fucker.

With barely disguised passion, wrestling gently as one
Fortresses are raized
Battlements set afire
An oddity of peace amidst the battleground
A chance meeting at night, an unexpected truce
Two poet-warriors, Montgomery and Compos,
Mutually respecting
Logrolling the shit out of each others' Poesy erections

Here Come the Judge

Since when do they put accountants
With rapists in the Federal Pen?
When you stole from the judge that tried you
That is fucking when.

Either gotta become someone's bitch
Or kick somebody's ass.
But the latter is hard to do
With weenie arms and jaw of glass.

Quickly walking to my bunk
Trying to ignore their yells.
"Fresh meat! You gotta pretty mouth!"
I'm glad they're in their cells.

Sigh of relief as I get to my cube
Seem to be all alone
When from behind comes a gravelly voice,
"Let's give this new bitch a bone."

Quickly I turn to see who's there
And nearly piss my pants.
Three mountains of muscle and tatooes
Have taken an aggressive stance.

One said, "We're here to make you pay
In one way or another.
The judge that sent you up the river,
Well the warden is his brother."

"We're the friendly welcome wagon
And we got somethin' for you."
He licked his lips and grabbed his crotch,
"We're the warden's reckon crew."

Looking at me they laughed and snorted
At this stupid little pun.
I looked around then yelled for help
But I knew there would be none.

They moved forward, I moved away
Until my back was against a wall.
“Come on boys!” one of them said,
“We gonna have ourselves a BALL!”

With fists clenched and teeth bared
I growled and spat and said
"I ain't goin' quietly motherfuckers!
"You'll have to take it DEAD!"

They started to laugh, then I did too!
It really was kind of funny
That is until my asshole was on fire
For stealing a judge’s money!

rdbrewer - I already told him all he had to do was buy my a couple of lousy drinks. Hell I'd settle for a caffieine buzz such is his genious.

You should have entitled your poem "Love Gravy Weenie War."

Oh, and fuck you : )

Imputations about my manhood confuse and enrage me. I will now write a very cutting and sarcastic poem expressing my bitterness and hatred of both compos and rdbrewer while at the same time expressing my eternal love for Mother Earth and also detailing my very not-gay infatuation with female genitalia.

You just wait for this poem! It'll...it'll...well, you won't be laughing then, will you? Hm? I mean...when...when my poem shows you how totally masculine and brawny...oh, and non-homophobic, because there's nothingwrong with that if that's your thing...will you be laughing then? I think not!

(Note the ending !, by the way -- isn't that just a cool meta-thing about how all poems should end with a ! Just thought I'd point that out.)

!

Monty, that response was gay.

I second Michael's motion.

Cascading...

Cascading water.

A waterfall.

Clouds.

Lots of them. Light and puffy. You know... clouds!

And flowers, covered with dew.

And trees hanging over.

And you and me, naked on a rock.

Master of poetry
Orator extraordinaire
No one is your better
Teach us oh master!
Your powers of prose

In your words we find meaning
Sparking our imaginations

And a stirring in our loins

Hear our praises oh exalted one!
Oh, how we love you! In
More ways than you can imagine
Organs salute your musings

I call you coach
Though cocksucker is more fitting
For I am not one of your pets
Though my talent is equal to or exceeds theirs
At least in my mind
I watch the skin on your bald phallus of a head
Wrinkle as you chomp your bubblegum
And daydream that you are managing in the bigs
When this is high school and the only thing you can manage
Is to make me want to pop that goddamned bubble
With this aluminum baseball bat
Coach cocksucker

Why do you answer my question with a question?
Is that the same as questioning my question?
And yes, since you asked, I’m answering your answer with a question.
I guess that means I’m questioning your answer.

Someone get me outta here.

Slap happy
punch drunk
caf-feine,
slam dunk
Mozart
Beethoven
AC/DC
Fifth of gin
Jesus Christ
Godsmack
gonna have
heart attack.
No more
poetry
Ace of Spades
let me be
lost my
fucking mind
slaving to
daily grind
I am
outta here
light a fire
drink some beer
peace out
all ya'll
weekend
have a ball

See ya compos. Been a slice.
.
.
.
.
But not a gay slice.

have a good one compos

It's a bright sunny day, and a good thing
For he was a boy who loved the outdoors.
His father always imagines his son out of doors
And brown from the sun.
The boy loved to play, and played hard,
And his father would someimes find him at night
Asleep by his toys. His father would carry him
Up the stairs to bed, careful not to wake him.

The boy became a Marine because his father was a Marine
And his father was proud of that;
But the boy became his own man,
And his father was proud of that too.

And now there is a folded flag for the mantel-piece
And the medals the boy won in places with names
His father can barely pronounce.
There is the stone with the words Semper Fidelis.
The father feels the weight
Not of the casket, which the other pallbearers
Help him carry,
But of the knowledge that this is the last time
He will carry his sleeping son to bed.

Tree.
TALL
w-i-d-e
(alive!)

And in the way
of chimpybushitlerhalliburtonoilwarmongers

bzz-bzz-bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

OK, Monty, you've finally achieved a genuinely talentless, sappy, pretentious, altogether awful poem.

I withdraw my motion.

But I'll be monitoring you, ready to throw a yellow flag on any for further displays of effective writing.

Monty, that was the shiz. Awful perfectified.

Monty, you're a pill.

It's a fine line...too sappy? Not sappy enough? Too bad I couldn't pipe in the sound of a trumpet playing Taps.... Plus the vague anti-war vibe. But it can't sound too broad or it's just dumb.

I personally vastly prefer Homer-style warfare poetry, complete with shields and helmets and hacking swords and spewing blood and stuff. But that's me.

Too Sappy?

That's what put it over the
Top, man. You really spoke to me.
You got balls of poetic granite.
You walked to the very razor's edge.
And completely, courageously
Blew it.
Could've been a new world record
In poesy kitsch,
Devastating Twaddle category.

I get the impression
Ace is looking for something
That would fool about 89%
Of the population.
Problem is, you cut into the 90%
Demographic, oh brave one,
Completely fucking up your chances of
Having it posted on the main board.
Sorry, pal.

Then again, I don't have the
Mutant-humor radar with the bone-burning,
Ionizing radiation package
Like Brotha Ace.
(Why didn't my mother
Spring for that, dammit?
Instead, she got me that silly,
evolutionarily ignorant, cockeyed
Circumscision.
Makework for doctors, it is,
Like letting the salesman talk you into the
Undercoat on a new car,
A car without a fucking top.
Worst of all, I hear chicks dig the
Natural look.
What a waste.
What a travesty.)
So, what would I know, Montgomery?
And I'm full of toasted, sour-grape jealousy
Sandwiches anyway,
Fucker.

Really, bro, that one should be,
Painted on a black velvet field
Made in Korea
With a hole cut out
For a picture of someone special.
Suitable for framing.
And sold in gift and hobby shops
Nationwide for $9.53.
Right next to the flourescent painted
Elvises and toreadors.

You'd find it on grandma's mantlepiece
Next to the carnival glass candy-bowl full of
Pins and bobbins.
And right behind the porcelain,
Enamel-painted birdies.
Right where grandma keeps her
Heart.

One more thing,
Me and the other dabblers in
Word jewelry
Voted you off the island.
Should've listened to the
Brew-man when he
Recommended throwing dice
And placing random curse words
In your beautiful, gold and
Jewel-encrusted mind
Feces.

Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
Michael Moore is fat.

Good one. This should be a theme.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Never get between Michael Moore and a buffet
Unless you want to be trampled like a fucking bug.

To Fart is Art

Of a Spendorous Kind

A Rapture of Rupture

Explosive

Divine

*Deep breath*

In the gloaming light of dawn
I wonder at the fading stars.
Are they there for a purpose?
Am I?

Do I only exist to provide compost for the slumberous warmth of a winter garden, sleeping beneath the snow?

No. The vital juices of manhood surge within me. I will speak the truth.

As the lion challenges the bear in vain -- his destiny is retreat -- so also must we think

Of Nixon. And ping pong diplomacy.

How we preened at the opening to China. Only Nixon, we said, could do it. Now we have seen the awful end game.

Outsourcing, and the poverty of America.

Who could have foreseen this disaster?

Cedarford, alas, you were too late.

In the gloaming light of dawn
I wonder at the fading stars.
Are they there for a purpose?
Am I?

How 'bout gratuitous bonus poetry!

I got a poetizing jones.

Vogonoration

Oh, thy fulsome neglobody
Glimbering pulmpousity next to me,
Thy roundolience maketh me sphinctoswirl and lythe!
In loftacious mindoliant erecthyration.
Touch me, my sweengtane lingnoptherous
And spreadly thy titillating blowthanglotine.
Timely, so I may ogglasscenate thy dewy hineregnosplice,
That bulbousitous visage of beautacious thatchnicty.
Yield to my garbanzola.
For thyne noodlantonites arominiate, Plebotine, my lovey.
Hefter zeing dewy snachlopoideroctopus
And sit on my face.

Vote me off the island?!? Who says that anymore? That is so, like, last year. Or the year before. I don't watch television like you peasants, so I can't really say.

And anyway, I'll go to my own island. Only my island will have legal gambling, cheap and plentiful spirits, and experienced doxies who work for the local currency (which is small seashells which can be picked up by the thousands at the seashore, thus making bootie-knocking essentially free).

So there. Kiss my ass, you covetous navel-gazing retards. I'll send my poesy bolides to Ploughshares or The Paris Review from now on. They'll appreciate me.

A Vogonathon might be fun. See who can write the most giggly Vogonoration.

Montgomery, I didn't know they don't say that anymore. You must watch a lot of TV. Hey, take a stab at a Vogonoration. Let's see what you got.