[graywyvern]

Ozzy & Dubya sat on a White House sofa
Not talking about the International Tribunal.
Neither one has heard of microtonal
Music; both possess an expensive loofah.

plastic flowers

how sad you are with a fake beauty
reminding me of love
how sad you are with no need
reminding me of trust
how sad you are with no truth
reminding me of words
how sad you are with your trickery
reminding me of God
how sad you are with everything
put together by a man
you own all that could ever be
how sad it is a lie

[graywyvern]

<FONT >
To follow the speed limit rigorously
Is to make oneself a laughingstock:
SUVs will come right up to your back bumper
And flash their headlights
Like you were doing something wrong;
People will lean on their horns.
To follow the speed limit rigorously
Is to make oneself a laughingstock.
</FONT c>

[graywyvern]

<FONT >
Aleister's in a song; they play it in Dallas.
So popcult's scarfed at last Mr. Roly-Poly
Satanist: true, his name is mispronounced foully,
But when could he ever be taken holus-bolus?
</FONT c>

[Chris O'Carroll]

There's an excellent fingernail poem in the current Conspire (http://www.conspire.org). The tile is simply "Fingernail," the author is Melissa Ahart.

I've got a sonnet about coprolites, fossilized dinosaur droppings, in this month's (April, 2002) 3rd Muse Poetry Journal (http://www.3rdmuse.com/journal).

My offering below requires a bit of introductory explanation, never a good sign. A while ago, at a workshop board I no longer frequent, a participant wrote in a thread on good and bad crits, "My chief bugaboo is those who say 'I want to know more about' the farting of camels – whatever." It was clear from context that she was decrying off-the-point fixation on irrelevant side issues, not denouncing a passion for detail, not dismissing a devotion to the five senses and the things of this world. I was happy to misconstrue her for comic effect.

SMELLS LIKE THE VOICE OF INSPIRATION

Poet, forgive me that I plead for more
About those camels and the way they fart.
Though this crit is the type that you abhor,
I crave a down & dirty detailed art.
Give me that lifted tail, that whiff of bowel,
Bactrian perfume on the desert air;
Approximate each consonant or vowel
Sound voiced by dromedary derriere.
I am aware that something more immense is
The goal to which your poetry aspires,
But I assure you that the lowdown senses
Are portals opening on realms far higher.
I pray that each word you rhyme or enjamb’ll
Beckon my soul toward a farting camel.

[Jim Hayes]

My felications Mr O'Carroll, on a thoroughly enjoyable and well constructed piece, although there are some here who would decry its scatalogical artistry.

To show that I do not share such reservations, tomorrow, or when I feel that sufficient time has been allowed to digest your piece fully, I shall post my Swiftian "Ode To the Common Asshole; Anus Ubiquitous"

Jim



[This message has been edited by Jim Hayes (edited April 27, 2002).]

[Roger Slater]

Well done, Chris! And I liked the published poems you gave a link for.

[Moxie Luv]

This poem is a true story *grin*
The building that I work in has an atrium in the middle (smoking area)with glass catwalks crossing the middle of each floor...and all of the inner offices are glassed in; kinda like one huge fishbowl.

A new and clueless girl in the building did in fact expose herself to me and about 15 other people looking up from the first floor, about 10 of which were men...a couple of them sent dollar bills up with one of the female witnesses who happened to work in the same office with her *hehehe*

Just the facts.

Three stories above
in view from first floor
a woman bent over
to dig in a drawer

Her skirt it was micro
much fabric it lacked
those butt-cheeks were grinning
a smile they did crack

When down from below
a man pointed up
the room roared with laughter
male crotches were cupped

The women all whispered
as men sang a song
in praise of her tonsils
and her frilly white thong


~M~

[Jim Hayes]

Encouraged by Christ O'Carroll's post, herewith is my contripution to the genre; But You Can't Write a Poem About That!

Anus Ubiquitous.

Anus Ubiquitous ; (The Common Asshole,)
Opinion’s symbiotic twin from pole to frozen pole;
nobility posesses one just like the common fellow—
some are black, some are brown; and some a little yellow.

The Englishman makes fun of his with humor scatological,
Americans, being sanitized, forget it's biological,
everybody knows that the German's is retentive,
the Frenchman uses his and is remarkably inventive.

The Irish are proficient users speaking through their Erse,
the Spanish, quixotically, try to use it in reverse,
The Russian has a lexicon on how he is fixated—
the same as Mongols, Slavs and Finns to whom he is related.

The Greeks when they are using theirs are known to leave a mess,
Italians will expose theirs when they’re trying to impress,
Australians and New Zealanders in the Antipodes
break out in rashes on their asses wiping it with weeds.

The Pope, when he can locate his, decrees infallibility.
Little babies use it when they're bouncing on a daddy’s knee,
it’s reported some men using theirs will read a magazine.
It’s said the Queen of England has a maid to wipe it clean.

People use it in the loo, the men’s room and the john
or whatever other euphemism that they're sitting on;
but no one cares how/where it’s used as long as they are fated
to own at least a little one and aren’t constipated.

Jim Hayes




[This message has been edited by Jim Hayes (edited April 27, 2002).]

[Chris O'Carroll]

Great, I finally get a shot at being somebody's muse, and it turns out I've inspired the posting of an asshole poem. This is lots of fun, Jim. I especially enjoy the Erse/arse joke. Because I can't resist a bit of fine-point carping, I'll note that Finns are related (linguistically, and thus probably ethnically somewhere back in the mists of prehistory) to Hungarians, but not to Russians or any other contiguous tribes. And I wonder if "proctological" would be a better rhyme for "scatological" in this context. (I used "biological" to rhyme with "paleontological" in the coprolites poem mentioned above, so I'm probably feeling a little proprietary. Pay me no mind.)