Monday, April 10, 2017

Down the Drain








A Coroner's Report

He dropped his savings in the rain,
He'd just come from the bank.
He watched his life go down the drain
Into a septic tank.
I assume before the fatal fall
Had gone his precious pride
From affluent to effluent.
The verdict: sewer-cide.

by Alan Harland
in volume 5 issue 2

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Monday, April 3, 2017

Poets Putting it Out There






The Brash Editor
With a nod to William Carlos Williams
so much depends
upon

a brash portly
editor

and whether he's
eaten

before he reads my
poem

by Daniel R. Jones
in volume 5 issue 2

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Monday, March 27, 2017

for Britland








Anglophile

Pity I can't tell you when I learnt
I loved British authors best. I don't
live in a flat or gaff, nor use much
petrol. Never had children, so no need
of nappies. I've come to think those
who call themselves teachers in the States
are bloody fools, who should be sacked.
Just look at the massive rubbish they spout
in the language of the lav. And prayer
in schools? Start a row over creation myths?
Bunch of plonkers, prats, and muppets.
Tell them to get off their fat bums, stop
playing clingfilm near their mums, and quit
watching the telly, drinking lager. Read!
There's more than a few good bits in books
by Brits, and they aren't obsessed with guns
and buggery. I fancy Fortey, Dawkins,
Rowling, Ridley. Aren't they the proper
mates? Like me, they love autumn, never
lower themselves to call it fall.

by Joan Mazza
in volume 5 issue 2

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Monday, March 20, 2017

Don't shake that Speare at me!








Bard Garb

Shakespeare found a well-placed cuff
When writing fight scenes just enough.
To set his mind; for romance, collars
Helped him rake in royal dollars.
When he mocked in sharp ad-libbin',
He wound about his neck a ribbon,
And wore his stiff and starchy ruff
When he wrote more solemn stuff.


The Original Fanfiction

Fanfic may not be canon, but don't dare
Denounce it as dishonest, or declare
That it is unoriginal or, worse,
Suggest that it devalues Shakespeare's verse:
Remember, then, the Bard had sticky fingers
When it came to names or witty zingers,
And lifted storylines wholesale, it's said
From folks like poor old Mr Holinshead.
And if you'll visit poor young Willie's grave
(You'll tell it from the bust that needs a shave),
I'd wager that his grave itself was not
His own. He probably just stole the plot.

both by Daniel Galef
in volume 5 issue 2

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Monday, March 13, 2017

Vestigial








Ode to the Appendix
in the style of Pablo Neruda
Organ small,
unnecessary,
I caress you.
Sprung from stars
and bound for stars,
poised as a locust,
you are modestly
excessive,
intimate with
the great engines
and boilers,
the heartbeats
and belches,
yet oddly detached.
You loaf and
lounge at your
ease. I think of
Pushkin:
by your good graces
you whipped up in his
belly
no revolution,
refused
to interfere
with the rhythms
of his concentration—
were it up to you,
his voice would
be rhapsodizing still.
The least part
of that mighty poet,
aren't you,
by virtue of such
light employment,
the least defiled
by mundane needs
and uses? Therefore
the most refined,
sluiced in your
oils and chyle,
the most prone
to those late-night
marinatings the
pedants call
lucubrations:
the most pristine
and fit for singing?
Are you not
the very essence
of the deathless
and necessary Poet,
and by extension
everyone?
Little neglected one,
above all,
I caress you.

by Dan Campion
in volume 5 issue 2

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