The extravagant splurges;
the hungover fog;
the binges, the purges;
the hair of the dog;
the cigarette cough,
have brought only sorrow.
I'm swearing them off...
Well-- maybe tomorrow.

Not autobiographical, mind you. More's the pity.

Here's my vice: addiction to writing silly poems.


Dear Sinner,
Have you found no other way to fill up your emptiness besides sex, booze and dope?
Nope.

THE ASCETIC

The day that I renounced my bed to sleep upon the floor
I exercised a discipline that led me to abjure
a pleasure that my body loved.
My soul cried, "Bravo! More!"

And so I gave up bread and meat to live on bits of grain.
My wife, who did not understand, declared I was insane.
And yet my soul defended me.
"Bravo!" it cried. "More pain!"

And so I moved out of the house in which my life was stuck
and crawled off naked in the woods to lie down in the muck.
At that I heard my soul announce,
“I fooled him! What a schmuck!”

The guy on the pillar is obvious. I am a poet of the obvious. By the way, Charles Albert, is that a Borgesian pseudonym?

Sign of the Times

Now the air is growing chiller, and I’m living on this pillar, an
Abode a hundred feet above the ground.
You may wonder why I do it, but there’s really nothing to it,
As a saint I’m just the saintliest thing around.

My belief burns like a laser, I’m a stranger to the razor
And my body is a stranger to the soap.
Though you loathe me as a losel, an assault upon your noseholes,
Yet I’m closer to salvation than the pope.

As a youth, alas, I lusted after prominently busted,
Shady ladies who were going to the bad.
But I’m wiser now and holier, though a prey to melancholia
When I think of all the stuff I never had.

An ascetic is the word – if that’s pathetic and absurd, if
I’m so itchy that I’m bitchy and I smell,
Still I’m Heaven-bound to Jesus, and you lewd, licentious geezers,
Mark my words, are on the primrose path to Hell.

Of course I am but a disciple of your great Newman Levy. Google him if you don't know.

Proving once again that great minds work in parallel courses:

When St. Simeon Stylites was besieged by girls in nighties
(In the harem they would wear'em on the 7/24),
He remained upon his pillar (such a haughty lady-killer!)
And their dances got no glances, for he thought them all a bore.

For his gaze was upward, godly, uninclined to find the bodily
Lower functions or their unctions to his eremitic taste,
So they wept and went away then; not a single one would stay when
He rejected and elected to prefer the desert waste.

More ascetic than Siddhartha, he was hard on saintly Martha
(What a drama! His own mama!) whom he would not let draw near,
And he said with bitter laughter, "We shall meet in the hereafter."
Well, she went away and died that day and never shed a tear.

So he met her up in heaven after more than 37
Years of setting out and getting even closer to the bone:
"Son, you should have eaten better. I've been knitting you a sweater."
But that hermit would not permit her to help him try it on!

Hell's Bells, Sam. We can't BOTH win. But why not? Why not? There are half a dozen prizes. But somebody has to kill that feller Greenwell. I think he puts in MULTIPLE submissions, the swine.

This one's for you, John.

I'll swear off vice-- I really mean well.
But first I'll kill that feller Greenwell.

It won't take much. He hasn't been well.

Is what a borgesian pseudonym? But alas, my answer is probably no, regardless of what you meant. I haven't done anything borgesian in years.

I did google Levy. Awesome! Thanks so much for bringing him to my attention!

So we're all up a pole--


Since becoming an ascetic I find life is less frenetic
as I sit aloft a pole throughout the day,
wearing kilts my butt is frozen so I now don lederhosen
since they’re good for keeping haemorrhoids at bay.

No more whiskey, beer or cigs, I make do with syrup of figs,
as it keeps me warm by running with the trots,
and I find a bed of nails is a ploy that rarely fails
to divert my mind from women sans culottes.

I adopt a smug position by abstaining from coition
and claim celibacy is a high vocation,
not admitting I would fret some during times I couldn’t get some,
oh those base desires could ruin my reputation.

Since I neither shave nor shower, I grow ranker by the hour
to maintain that I abjure the here and now,
yes I’m smelly and unclean, then you note my saintly mien
when you must concede I’m holier than thou.


Jim