Thinking of it now, truth to tell
I should have said goodnight, turned out the light
I should never have started this villanelle
now I am stuck in verse form hell
everything I write seems totally trite
thinking of it now, truth to tell
I can check out but I can’t leave this hotel
(the Eagles, you get the reference, right?)
I should never have started this villanelle
mission bell, tinker bell, death knell
I’ve started to write total shite
thinking of it now, truth to tell
I have to get off this carousel
it’s been a struggle, it’s been a fight
I should never have started this villanelle
I need another word that rhymes with ‘elle’
final quatrain, the pain, the urge to yell;
thinking of it now, truth to tell
I should never have started this villanelle
like a lot of nouns
he had spent a bit of time
in declension centres
discussing cases
with case workers
it wasn’t that bad
he just wishes
they weren’t all
so accusative.
Mr. O’Brien, Flann, Myles na gCopaleen Myles of the Little Horses, this is not about a bicycle. My dad once told me you were a regular on the last bus out of the city, heading home to Booterstown langered, stotious, three sheets to the wind whether this was an observation or a judgement or an exaggeration I could never quite figure but if you should meet my dad in that section of heaven reserved for former residents of South Dublin please say hi from me and I hope it’s always late June up there and the evening is stretching its legs and the light is like filtered longing.
This is an edit of a previous post, it’s Father’s Day here in Canada, and it’s also Bloom’s Day in Dublin, so here are some photos of Joyce’s “scrotum-tightening sea”.
you wake up again in a cheap motel in a morning after daze and you walk out into the parking lot in the early morning haze there’s a guy over by the dumpster trying to make that cigarette last well, we all don’t get to pick and choose the role in which we’re cast
There’s a distinct lack of bonhomie on Agronomy Road, the windows look pained the crosswalks sullen, hooded students slouch by in a smart phone trance.
and the sky….
the sky is so tired of poetry that it openly defies description.
I feel the urge to emit a cri de coeur
Laissez le Bontemps roulez I shout from the window of my Subaru Forester let the good times roll,
let the good times roll on Agronomy Road.
(Author’s note: No languages have been intentionally harmed in the making of this poem)
A clear day radio waves crisscrossing the sky new messages from new gods new messengers for the old gods.
A clear day and I’m taking my algorithms -Spo’fy and N’flix, as I affectionately call them- for a walk.
You’re probably wondering what an algorithm looks like. Well, that’s why I’ve switched to prose. They are basically stick figures with a series of parallel horizontal lines projecting from their spines, “spinickles”, they are called. They have glass balls for heads. When all the spinickles light up , the glass ball flashes “one”, otherwise it flashes “zero” . They are not great conversationalists as you can imagine but I’m taking them for a walk because I have bones to pick.
“ Hey Spo’fy”, I exclaim, to get things started, “ what’s with all this Dad Rock. I listen to Bad Moon Rising once and I’m inundated with Creedence. Also, please no more Zeppelin, I can’t stand Robert Plant’s voice, way too much bombast. ‘All rock and no roll’ , to quote Keef. Hendrix didn’t like them either!”
Spo’fy turns to me and his glass head starts to scroll the lyrics to Stairway to Heaven.
“Oh, so you’re a comedian now!”.
I turn to N’flix.
“And you” I say in what I think is a measured tone” enough with the romantic comedies. I know the tropes inside out. Unlikely couple falls in love, halfway through the movie they have an argument and break up. They each are comforted by a quirky friend, played by a member or ex-member of the SNL cast. A year later they bump into each other on the street, fall in love again, live happily ever after.”
N’flix turns to me, a circle revolving in the glass ball of his head. It revolves for a minute, then there’s a loud “Tadum”. Then the circle revolves again and one minute later….another “Tadum”!
“Oh, so you’re a comedian too”, I shout, “what’s your stage name – Al Go Riddum?”
A man walking by with a dog stares at me . The dog barks in the direction of the Algo’s, the dogs know the dogs know two clouds appear in the sky one with the face of Elon Musk the other, Bill Gates
if intelligence is artificial how can we tell what’s real?
I take Spo’fy and N’flix home they are all grown up now they have minds of their own.
The trestle tables covered with plastic table cloths from last year are fully loaded with potted plants the coffee is brewing the kettle is boiling there is hustle and there is bustle …. the annual plant sale is about to begin. And unbeknownst to the organizers some of whom are wearing rain coats that even Vera would have thrown out, unbeknownst to the organizers beneath one of those trestle tables covered by a tarp and a pile of those black trays used for carrying plant pots lies the body of a local man called Jeff seeds already germinating in that gash on his neck. People will later talk of a heated argument the night before between Jeff and a member of the committee something to do with the best time to plant grass but now he lies unnoticed and the plant sale is in full swing speaking of Vera… Doris, the local detective who watches way too much British crime drama and who styles herself on Vera right down to the tatty rain coat and the old jalopy, receives a tip from an anonymous caller, something to do with a body at the plant sale. She arrives when the sale is still in full swing and the crime scene is beyond contaminated. “Who’s in charge here?” says Doris. A burly woman in a tatty raincoat steps forward and says: “I’m Joan and I’m in charge and you’re on teas, remember to put the milk in first or you’ll crack the china” Doris shows her badge and Joan snorts: ” No discounts, badge or no badge and it’s cash only. Also, we have no butter so tell them they don’t need butter on the scones.” And Doris thinks: “This one could take more than one episode to solve.” Then there’s a milk-curdling scream,
someone has looked under the tarp for more black plastic trays. The theme music starts…..
consider the object consider the space consider the objects excluded from the space ask the question: is the object occupying the space worthy of the space or is the object a waste of space? consider the material forming the space journey to its origins in a plantation somewhere British Columbia, perhaps, or Brazil see the tree felled, shorn of its branches, loaded on a flatbed truck with its passive companions follow the truck to a paper mill the size of a small city see the tree chipped, pulped, processed see the gases escaping to atmosphere hear the outfall roar into the river ask the questions: are we here to consume? can we be consumed by consumption? see the worker arriving home from the mill to food on the table a roof above his head ask the question: is there only one answer to a question? return to the space consider the object.
Meaghan loved her job, the compensation was meager but that didn’t bother her what bothered her was her relationship with Edgar; she felt beleaguered. “What the hell is wrong with you”, Edgar raged, on a regular basis, and all she could think of was: Isn’t “raged” an anagram of Edgar?
This was a response to a Daily Prompt (back in the day), the prompt was “meager”.
Hans was a sensitive guy he didn’t have the armory for solo polyamory he wanted to marry settle down maybe do a bit of farmery somewhere far away from the clamor, the goddamery of big city life
Last night I dreamt that Jared Kushner and Stephen Miller had entered my basement through the dryer vent, maybe “entered” is the wrong word it was more an “insinuation”, a slithering, under the vent flap down the plastic vent hose and into the dryer drum where they paused briefly to cough up some lint before pushing open the dryer door and oozing out onto the basement floor.
In the morning I went down to check the basement feeling more than a little anxious. it was empty, nothing had changed. I sensed movement out of the corner of my right eye I turned, but there was no one there. I sensed movement out of the corner of my left eye I turned, again there was no one there but there was a smell not the usual one, from that sock abandoned at the bottom of my gym bag this was rancid, pungent, acrid, fetid, halitotic with a hint of damp weasel……. the smell of venal ambition.
Jared is back in the news again, so I thought I would give this one another run.
Here I am a cheddar searchlight in the sky waiting for the arrival of man with his small steps and giant leaps, his garbage can machines, his religion, his culture, his competing ideologies, his self-aggrandizements, his bragging rights, his racism, his greed, his pomposity, his self-importance, his astronauts named “Buzz”.
I tell you, colonization never works out for the colonized. I have no desire to be turned into a destination for space tourists or a land fill or, more accurately, a moon fill.
What’s in it for me? Where’s the re-mooneration?
They say that nature abhors a vacuum well, I can handle a vacuum it’s vacuity, I abhor.
This is a rework of a previous post prompted by a challengea while back from Sarah over at dVerse to write a piece of prosery, of flash fiction (limit 144 words) incorporating the phrase “I dreamt I was the moon” from a poem by Alice Oswald.
Mitch McConnell looks back one more time before the ship sails off
Mitch stares in from the murky depths an oxygen tank strapped to his back, his lugubrious visage fills the porthole he removes his oxygen mask a bubble escapes from his mouth and floats upwards his wattles sway like kelp in the shifting currents he has the detached look of a man examining a museum exhibit another bubble escapes upwards he turns and kicks for the surface his sagging buttocks pale but somehow luminous
I’m sitting in a café smoking a Gitane yes, I’m sitting in a café smoking a Gitane I’m reading Jean Paul Sartre and wondering who I am.
Existential boogie do that existential thing you can do it in your armchair summer, autumn, winter, spring.
If you’re looking for an answer don’t ask Albert Camus yes, if you’re looking for an answer don’t ask Albert Camus that dude’s been dead a long time he can’t tell you what to do
Existential boogie do that existential thing well you can do it in your armchair summer, autumn, winter, spring
And don’t talk to me about Immanuel Kant no, don’t talk to me about Immanuel Kant well I know that you want to but you can’t
Existential boogie do that existential thing you can do it in your armchair summer, autumn, winter, spring
And Rene Descartes said I think therefore I am yes, old Rene, he said I think therefore I am well, I call that a beginning I sure don’t call that a plan.
Existential boogie do that existential thing you can do it in your armchair summer, autumn, winter, spring.
The other day I came across the word ‘runcible’ as in ‘runcible spoon’.
The word was invented by Edward Lear as in ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’.
There is something risible about the word ‘runcible’ as in ‘laughter provoking’ which is different than ‘laughable’, ‘laughable’ has connotations of contempt as in ‘derisible’ meaning ‘worthy of derision’, ‘derisible’ is almost an anagram of ‘desirable’ but back to ‘runcible’, there is a great bounce, a great versatility to the word:
he walked out the morning after humming a runcible tune
he had a runcible air about him an odour that lingered long after he had left the room.
Your high society mistress has long since left your bed and that Scandinavian seamstress has you hanging by a thread
those so-called glitterati won’t return your calls and your two-toned Maserati is running on nothing….nothing at all
but when you walk out in the morning you’ve still got that strut Cuban heels nerves of steel when you walk out in the morning you’ve still got that strut.
Luke 18:25 : “it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God”
Donald Trump enters The Kingdom of Heaven
This is how I’m going to do it, folks, I’ll build a giant needle, the biggest, shiniest, pointiest needle that you have ever seen. This needle will be so pointy, folks. Then I’ll get a camel from Egypt or somewhere like that. Get the irony , me buying a camel. See, I can do irony I can be so ironic. I’ll mount that camel using my gold escalator, and ride it right through the eye of the needle into the kingdom of heaven and when I get there, folks, when I get there I’m going to make some changes. Those angels……. Sitting around on clouds playing harps for eternity? Give me a break! Eternity is a long time, folks, eternity is the longest time…. anyway, where was I..right those angels are gone, history, outta there who needs them? Then I’ll sit down with God the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. well maybe not the Holy Ghost, what is he anyway…a dove? A ghost? That’s it folks no more Holy Ghost. Gone, history, outta there. Who needs him? Another thing, folks who’s actually in charge? Is it the Father or the Son? Has to be the Father, can’t let your children run things. So I’ll sit down with God the Father, folks and together we’ll make Heaven great again!
Stopdraggingthepanda 