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Tag: Poetry

The Twitter Poet of Avon


When the Poet of Avon, Mr. William Shakespeare, awoke this very morning, he stumbled headfirst into brevity. Twitter.
In doing so, he doomed all other English playwrights, a primarily sterile ladle of plagiarizing snakes, to drone on while in morbid awe of him for all eternity.
The notion of premièring himself on this afternoon, as the writer of fewest words, flung him into malicious merriment. “I am now and forever will be a port-wine reduction sauce of succinctness.
“My genius is the tabernacle of the truncated,” he boasted,” I will leave the breadth of things to the freshmen.”
“Verily,” he bragged (too loudly, for his mother, now overhears him while hiding behind his bedroom door), “and forever, my works will be posted with nails onto trees in twenty-six words and less and will be known to the audience as “tweets.”
Hearing this vow, his mother, the severely verbalized Mary Arden Shakespeare, dismays.
Mary was a woman who could trace her long-windedness as linearly as an erection, back to the most crucial exercise of unnecessary human print, “The Doomsday Book.” She feared her son was maneuvering into a near-criminal puddle of abbreviated verbal sulkiness.
She slumped, legs splayed into bunches of skirts, muttering miserably to herself (wholly in Old English, to her credit), “I will not allow him an eternity of pithiness of verse.”
But Bill speeds by her, determined to stop his life’s drudgery of taxing inventiveness before she can interfere.
“Romeo and Juliet” was already rewriting itself in his mind as a love story that lasts only as long as a stick of sassafras chewing gum.
“Romeo has the scheme, parents will be sorry; R. fucks everything up, big mess, J. is an idiot The End,” was all it needed to be.
Shakespeare sprints to Stratford’s Speaker’s Corner to announce the new course for England’s scholarly conversation.
“Forever on,” Bill bellows to a gathering crowd of the muddy, toothless, and lice-infested, “My tragedies and comedies will come to you now nailed on trees. To be read as “Twits.”
“Be it known that if it must be said, I will say it from inside the prison of twenty-six letterings or less. And all will carry a dollop of gruel for authenticity. Henceforth to be understood as my “gruel tag.”
“My histories, poems, and essays will remain on my Facebook page.”

William Shakespeare.

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Words that Hate Poetry

Poetry is the last thing
That would occur to letters
that were mulling around
hunting for something to say.

Words, if pressed, would testify
that gathering to rhyme is
only for holidays.

Proud writers feel awkward
leaving only verse,
daggling statements that are
unsure of their periods.

But I prefer the short shit,
it pleasantly matches
the number of readers I have.

Roses Are Red (or Something): Bad Poetry Competition Hits WT This Thursday  | HPPR

Pardonable Poetry

Even in the urgency of a bar’s “last call,” a woman can smoothly counterfeit a sentimental landscape that will help her overlook the alleyway or the cheap hotel where she will wind up on any given night.


Women do not declare love at the last minute based on sexual hysteria as men do. They are more agile. They invent pardonable poetry to envelope their poor decisions.

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Words that Hate Poetry


Poetry is the last thing
That would occur to letters
that were mulling around
hunting for something to say.
Words would testify
that gathering to rhyme is
only for holidays.
Good writers are uncomfortable
leaving only a verse,
one that is unsure
of where it’s period might fit in.
But I prefer this short shit,
cause I mostly don’t like
the reader anyway.

Bad Poetry |

Neptune does not echo

We are forever guessing
if we are a song.
Nothing is soundless.
We suspect
but are never sure that our noises carry.
My whistling
may reach Neptune.
But Neptune, like God, does not echo.
Birds don’t care so much
for their songs.
They care about eggs and nests
and the size of baby new wings.
Cicadas lullaby summer evenings.
But the night doesn’t pick up
their theme
and begin to dance.
Flies whizz their little ditties
by our ears.
And we brush them away,
like eavesdropped insults.
The flowers
exhale their perfumes​
into the winds to
blind the dazzled slave bees.
Nothing disturbs the evenhanded blizzard
that is being alive,
but the drama​ of surprising death,
and the odd collisions with love.

She sits among her snowflake suitors.
All sincere,
Each different,
Each the same
all waiting.
Until she finds
the one that echoes her song.

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PUBLISHED: June 30, 2016
FILED UNDER: Unnoticed in Clever Worlds
PUBLISHED: January 1, 2019
FILED UNDER: Unnoticed in Clever Worlds

Birds Don’t Care

 

Eternity is a grooved spinning record,
and we go round and round,
forever guessing if we are a song
Or the melody.

Life finds it’s tune.
Nothing is quiet.
Our sounds, we suspect, carry.
How far we can only guess,
My whistling
may reach Neptune.
I am not certain of this.
Neptune, like God, does not echo.

Birds don’t care
about their songs.
As much as we do.
They care about eggs and nests
and the size of baby wings.
Cicadas lullaby the end of summer evenings.
But night doesn’t pick up
on the chorus
and begin to dance.

Fllies whizz their little ditties
by our ears.
And we brush them away,
like bad David Bowie
covers.

The flowers
murmur their scents
into the winds,
to blind the slave bees.
We mistake them
for pleasure.

Nothing disturbs the evenhanded blizzard
that is being alive.
Nor its comedy of sudden death.

Love is the arrow that
fires straight into God’s
snowstorm
of the brief.
Patient tiny human lifetimes
hunting for first love.
Ignore the whirling and crashing
of suitors.
Who are,
All different,
all the same
all waiting.
Until she finds
the one that does not melt
away.

Poem: To Please Him

He climbs on me at night
to do bug things.
“Remember our first time,”
he whispers in the mean humming pitch
of warm August night locusts?
“Always,” I whimper.
He smoothes his antennae over our pillows,
like the handsome actor.
“Are you ready to die?” He sighs,
like small talk.
“Yes, I will die.” I plead.
He is pleased,
and I am safe.

It knew
I wasn’t going to tell.
I wrapped it in thick brown paper
and ran straight home
after it raped me.
I could not leave it there.
Not knowing where it was.

At breakfast
he asks, “So what shall we do today?
So casually that I am confused.
He touches my hand, his carapace hard
and unalive. I watch my thumb caress
the shell.
In small back and forth dread.
“What would make you happy?” I said
He smiles
and I exhale.

I told him tonight
His grubs live in me.
I feel them tearing to come out.
Praying daddy longlegs scraping
and burrowing for air.
His head on my stomach
listening and whirring insect songs to them.
I stroke the needle hairs on his back.
I know he loves me.

My deceit holds no estate in him.
I have vanished into what has hurt me.
Life forbids I feel nothing at all.
I will love my children.

There shall be

There shall be no law that prevents any person from deliberately hurting themselves.All recreational drugs will be taxed and subject to prohibitions in the same manner as alcohol. 

All abortions should be legal, free and obtainable without interference. 

The sale of weapons should be unlawful. Guns can be owned only with licences and all weaponry must be available free of charge. 

Healthcare will be free, financed by a single payer US system, with children placed in the front of any and all lines to receive care. 

Every person living in America must possess a licence to do so. 

Citizens must be at least twelve years of age to vote 

and, at least, twenty-six to serve in the armed forces.

Wet poem: “And So Was Gertie”

Mr. and Mrs. Stotnum Powder,
renown for synchronized postures
ran their noses around glass.
“ That cat has been staring at me,” said Stotnum
“At us, you mean ?” Gertie shot back,
much annoyed by the exclusion.
“It’s those big eyes;
they follow me, us, around,” Stotnum issued,
“Like it hates us.”
“It just sits there,” agreed Gertie,
“Doesn’t he have cat friends?”
“He might want company.”
Gertrude was thoughtful.
“It must be hard to be alone,” Gertrude bubbled,
brushing against Stotnum,
her back arched suggestively.
“ What would you do without me?”
He worried she was siding with the cat.
The splashing from above,
waved them apart.
The ceiling cracked open.
Sounds are tricky underwater,
He had never heard a scream.
Stotnum saw the face above them,
and then it’s paw.
Then the claws.
Quick as it came, it was gone again,
and so was Gertie.

Poem: Choices They Be

How clever could my choices be,

if what they decided upon was just me?

Then again I know this silly sap,

who clearly lived  without my map.

 

 

 

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