Thursday, 1 June 2017

Nose-picking in the Adirondacks

with Cowboy Joe


dear everyone I used to groan
only people who were anti were
cool as if the pros were banging drums
braying for war

now of course we're fighting side by side
peace at any price is not too dear
all my friends agreed & no one cried
prayers for war

god don't listen any more she's sick
devil took her stick poor girl I swear
still she hardly misses much the trick's
learning from war

recession in lunch cart verse

the opportunity cost of language
when sales are artificially low
is the coining of emotional verbiage
which can leave the average Joe
on the lookout for a ham-free sandwich
with saucy waitress to go

most people shy away when making hay

deploy euphemisms & if they do
occasionally let it all hang out
flush the Polaroids down a Portaloo

it's not as though they object to display
in other walks of life they strut around
almost naked for inst on holiday

play volleyball lark about at the pool
barbecue England's bangers by the pound
convinced their muscle tones & tans look great

yet doing what comes natural in the round
though dressed as organ grinders shall we say
how many folks would make a single sound

poetry revolution

nobody is physically killed
in the poetry revolution
stood up against the lectern
and shot by readers in blindfolds

while Frost is kept out in the 
cold Lorca survives to write
of humble retribution
dipping his pen in the blood of
gay marriage and gypsy
divorce meantime
rhyme & rhythm are hung
up to dry on long lines of reason
except Whitman who according
to some traditions is strung out on effigy

MAD women

with the naked thrill bananas feel
peeled in bedrooms Peggies compose
jingles advertising ready meals
pens between toes

O’Donald care

& yet another take on
this fake president's
likes & dislikes

how they make out Cuba’s
one of the few countries
Rockefeller's little
finger isn't on the pulse of

as if a crummy little
island couldn't transplant
a heart better & cheaper
than a few strands of hair

ink from the old

is it a duck-billed platitude to ask
if George the third etched his plan
on the bum of a waiting lady
or am I a stark staring Dutchman

experts may be divided
bisected on the rack
in efforts to reach the truth
for what can be extracted without gas

Master Nothing has nowt to say
& Mistress Telltale uttered no less
but Mister Social has spilled his all
& Madam Such as voluble as a fish dish


the pied wisecracker
drunk on gunk rhyme
don't do twitter
which ain't such a crime

their daily bread

not feeding the ducks may be lame
a meaningless walk in the park

struggling to dig up a name
too busy hunting of the quark

this universe ain't obvious
& the god complex a puzzle

religiously irreligious
at times in need of a muzzle

I come to the overwhelming
answer never ask a poet

if they've ever given delving
fifteen minutes in the toilet

& forgive my not trespassing
on the water dwellers' diet