[Lessandra]

Bills, Bills And More Bills!

Rot, snot, who cares if one works or not!
Work all day and then its for nought.
Bills go up, inflow goes down,
Tax time comes to bring a frown,

Truck on off to the CPA,
Hoping for a better day.
Money back would bring a glow -
Drat! No such luck, what a blow!

How is one to make up the lack?
Become a part-time poet hack?
Curses to all those bill collectors,
Foul dirty little pesky vectors!

[Nigel Holt]

Roses are dead, and violets are strewn,
Your head looks much better, when roughly hewn.

[Solan]

Dear Sir,
I know not who you are,
or why.
But I know you took my money
with a grin.
One month's wage.

I had complained too late,
you said,
to your delayed tax letter.
My fault!
you said.

Then let it also be
my fault
when they try to gather
your remains from the gutter.

[This message has been edited by Solan (edited July 30, 2001).]

[Kate Benedict]

Good show, everyone! It's taken me this long to "come up" with something myself but here goes.

THE CRUDDY SUPERMARKET

O Pioneer! Hellish emporium! --
where carts jostle in narrow aisles
made narrower by tipping carton-cliffs,
where half the stock is out of reach
and the milk sours
and the cheeses mold.
Sharp Kleenex boxes, falling from the heights,
have cut my face
and greasy spills have mucked my favorite shoes.
You have shortchanged me!
Your discourteous chattering checkers have deranged me!
The smell of catbox reeking from below
is the true essence of your fell concern.

I denounce you and I condemn you!
May your suppliers go on strike and your bank withhold credit.
May vandals break your windows and shoplifters plunder your shelves.
May your best customers desert you,
your staff stiff you,
and every bill in your circa 1950 registers turn counterfeit.
And may your three neglected cats arch their backs one morning,
pad up from the cellar,
hiss at the stock boys putting price stickers on top of expiration dates,
yowl like banshees,
and spray odiferous urine on your butcher's socks.

[conny]

I once knew a girl called Betty Swollocks.
That random curse machine is the dogs bollox.

[Peter K]

While I've come upon this thread late . . . I've enjoyed everyone's poetic rants. I didn't think I'd have a contribution to make, but then I came across the poem below, which arose from enduring a particularly long poetry reading last winter by a published poet.

Peter


THE ARK


Thirty butts scattered among
seats supporting spines that animate
illusions of insight. In this little cathedral,
set below the ground, the poet preaches.
As ten past nine slides by, a fog transforms

rigid chairs into chariots, taking us toward
some undefined circle of hell.
We are propelled like travelers trapped
in a heavy anvil set on wheels,
with wings welded awkwardly upon

its sides. Our pilot would have us soar
into the rare dimensions of Elysium.
She pauses, in mid-verse, to explain
we have arrived. The ears detect
a shower of golden words.

Her eloquent exposition leaves
these eager acolytes blinded
to any subtleties nestled
like costumed jewels in the folds
of boundless stanzas.

Swirling embers of intellect
adrift in the debris, thoughts break
from the smeary abstractions
of this elocution, toward more explicit
visions: leather coats, body piercing,
onion rings, flesh upon
fingertips, the tongue.

Discipline discarded, passengers strip
the fabric of false probity from
their skin. There is a boom box
vibrating behind the back wall,
as though Marilyn Manson’s beautiful people
can wait no longer to take the stage.

The flickering catharsis of earnest words
grows wet---its smoke mixing with sweat.
We would burst from this ship,
naked, dancing, restored to the lives
the poet must chant to describe.

[Kate Benedict]

Just keeping the topic active so it doesn't fall off into the invisible archive!

[nyctom]

I finally come up with a curse and you post two more exercises! Now I am thinking of mice scurrying in the fall and the such. You're a fun moderator Kate.

Here's the

Curse

When the cold north wind
is a shiver caught
in your lungs & seeping
under your skin
& you no longer believe in fire
except as an anachronism,
then I will be ice down the back of your shirt.

[Kate Benedict]

Just a post to keep these topics active in the hopes they can still inspire you ...

[ACHERON]

PAYMENT DUE @
@@@@@@@@@@@@@

YOU'RE MY FRIEND
OR SO I'M TOLD
THE SHIRT ON MY BACK?
IS IT THAT COLD
TAKING FROM ME
THOUGH I HAVE NOT
GIVING TO THOSE
NAMED YOURSELF
ALTHOUGH I TRY
NEITHER FORGIVEN OR FORGOTTEN
GO AND BEWARE
I SEEK RETRIBUTION
I WISH I WAS
OF JEWISH DESCENT
SO I COULD INFLICT MY RAGE
UPON YOU,ONE-EYED MONSTER HEAD

@@@@@@@@@
ACHERON @
@@@@@@@@@