"Flat Earthers Unite" a masterpiece by Q. Benighted Shamanyan, Flat Earth Society Grand Dragon

 Flat Earthers Unite 'neath the sweet umbrella of idiocy

and raise your voice in the cretin's version of Innisfree.

Pose and posit with simpleton's logic that what you see is all

there is to Heaven and Earth, Horacio you libtard tool.

Keep expanding on fake moon landings where static flags still flutter

and that the shadow IRA killed JFK with microchips in peanut butter.

In the devil's pizza parlor Hillary harbors tykes who are made to swap genders

to offend Jesus Christ who stays in most nights raising the rates on His renters.

The War On Christmas is serious business if the libs cancel Santa outright

and then ever after the horrible factor of a Santa who's black as the night

blown up in the yards of the BLM crowd who combine with the immigrant scaries

who jig hand in hand with the dregs of the land like POC's, atheists and fairies.

Flat Earthers unite to destroy all Bud Lite and the lamestream media too

who lie and tell us conservative fellas that slaves on plantations were blue

and other such whoppers, O Walmart Shoppers led by Commander Kid Rock

who collect Trump cards and various canards while for birthdays the kiddies get Glocks.

_________

for Desperate Poets "desperate satires." 

Healers of the Creolan Mission

Saint Creola keeps cats.
treats them as her children,
even though, upon interview,
--and perhaps strangely--
they have not learned any catechism
and have no idea who the Pope is.

What the cats do know, is the moon
and how it lives in the windows of the Creolan Mission.
They hear how it pulls the waves themselves toward the cliffs
as a mother would; without words,
or, at least,
without words being the important thing.

During daylight,
the cats are allowed to wander in and out of the sanctuary.
I have never known them to act any differently
on one side of the arched doors
than on the other,
and while it is true that the toms go off to scrap at night,
they cause no refugees to appear in the morning;
everyone still has their beds,
their bibles,
and their babies in their arms.

The cats do not care
who may be Russian Blue, or tiger striped.
They do not fear the power of females;
they have sex, and kittens, and catnip,
and sleep on the sill without a qualm.

At night, if I am afraid,
Saint Creola gathers me to her breasts and the peace there;
when I am feeling bold,
I offer her mine and let my hair trail down over us
like a blessing from God.

Saint Creola keeps cats,
and a single shepherd dog who belongs mostly to me,
though he attends Mass at best sporadically,
and, like the cats, can't name the Pope.
He is what is called a Blue Heeler,
though I misspelled it for the longest time
in light of his gifts, Saint Creola's kindness, and my need.
______

Inspired by the cat art of Guido Vedovato, and linked to Fireblossom Friday.

 

My New Poem

okay...what to write about? I'll try a warm-up exercise. People say they help...

beautiful haiku

you sit there and

oh hell, I hate haiku! "The fucking flower/ blah blah blah" Puke. How about something about a beautiful princess? Yes!  I'll model her after the lovely and captivating Ms. X, model of feminine perfection!

In the land of the unicorn,
through the flower-strewn fields
came a beautiful princess, who--
oh DAMN, what idiot decided to put steps here! I can't even see them because of all these stupid flowers. If I just--ack! Whoa, fallinggggggggggg! Whew, that was close, I just barely caught my balance in time. *snifffff* Okay, what's that? *lifts shoe* Oh frack, unicorn crap. Ugh! 

Or not. I know...I'll try something with deep mystical significance!

The wise and highly respected Swami
kept being undone by vulgar physical matters.
Looking in the mirror one day just before a seminar,
he saw that, beneath his long flowing beard, he had
~gasp!~
face dandruff!

With no time to spare, he went out and gave his presentation
on the mysteries of the universe,
but at the meet-and-greet afterglow party,
all Swami could think about was the offending flakes.
"Hello, yes, bless you, peace! Namaste!" he said to everyone, but
all the time, he could almost feel the nasty little flakes on his face expanding,
becoming huge,
turning his wise visage into a ridiculous snowstorm!

Swami began pretending to stroke his chin thoughtfully,
but soon,
he was speaking to people from behind both hands,
mumbling incomprehensibly, and half turning away.
"Swami, what's wrong?"
All his years of traveling, learning, fasting and studying,
wasted because of face dandruff!

Calling on all of his resolve, Swami lowered his hands, smiled,
and faced his well-wishers again.
Such lovely pilgrims, how could he have ever...

And then he felt it.
He was going to pass wind, and loudly. Oh no!

Shay Caroline, maybe this just isn't your morning to write. After all, April is done with, not that you even tried  to write a poem a day. NooOOoo. 23 poems is not 30. Would Christina Rossetti sit around in her bathrobe, whining "I can't thiiiiiiink of anythinggggggggggg"? C'mon, at least crank out a haiku.   

Cat Haiku

beautiful trash bin

heaped with stinky fish skellies

puts flowers to shame

Aw, damn I'm good!

   

All Revealed

Florists
often sing each to each
from beach and gondola
and also from pier and bay.

Water, they know, is essential to soul,
and no drop can exist removed and solo.
Like floral film-makers, they study p.o.v.,
framing, lighting and, in every arrangement, fragrance and hue.
What results is a visual sweetness.

Florists wait until the optimum moment to speak,
as if words were buds blessed in shades of crimson, saffron and blue.
From pool and bowl and vase they call,
vining and trailing over container and wall,
as simple as sparrows, and as mysterious as Anasazi.
________

for Hedge's challenge at Real Toads, featuring the art of Odilon Redon. At top, find his painting "Flowers."

 
 
 

Postal Logic

Soul And The Postal System

In Her wisdom,
the Goddess wraps each Soul in flesh,
like a folded letter,

and then each letter into its envelope
to come aware by degrees and be delivered--
and loved--
if not by her bearer,
then certainly by the Deity.

This is why philatelists
are the true priests.
"Six pounds, nine ounces."
Care and Time are the postage which sends each mailing out
and into the World.

Touch my body,
My Love, my darling--
my skin, my face, my breasts are the characters
of the language which is both Common
and Mine alone.

Corrupt and change my usage, as I will yours,
until we say more together
than we ever did before.

As if in a mailbag,
here we are, for the moment,
enfolded.

Carriers are the new Angels,
and though the paper of us will be read--
will fade--
will go illegible and lose meaning,
thrown away--

In the same way that each thing and creature
dissolves, even while flowing forward,
we will return,
wirelessly,
two souls wrapped around each other,
couched in our own particular and hybrid tongue,

delivered back the Goddess, who says,
"Ah! You're back,
My brave and wandering Beauties."
_______

Oy.

Having created the world in seven days,
God ends up with time on His hands.

He makes some weird dinosaurs and whips 'em down there,
but how many can you make?
After triceratops it's all downhill.

Then comes The Bright Idea.
God decides to hand down one commandment every day during April.

The first ten or so go well;
then things start to get dicey.

There are days when He just doesn't feel like it.
Can't a fellow get Saturdays off?
"The Rabbinical Council would have My ass," He sighs,
and so goes back to the drawing board.

"Thou shalt not eat Twizzlers on Tuesdays"
doesn't meet with the same awed response He is used to.

"No spitting on the sidewalk within city limits"
is another snoozer.

When He tosses out some crazytalk about men not lying with men,
His people won't even let Him in the disco anymore.

He declares jello pops "unclean". 
That's when he finds that He can no longer even get work doing infomercials.

Before April is over, God ditches the whole idea and hires an agent.
Within a week, He's guesting on "Hot In Cleveland."

"I'm coming all the way back!" He tells Entertainment Tonight.
"Then what?" the interviewer asks Him.
"I have another great idea," says God.
What is it?
"New Coke!"

Oy.
_____

for Lolamouse's challenge at Real Toads 

The Crap Poet

The crap poet
writes a crap poem
about her weak love
for a weak man,

and it takes her
(yes)
a week to write.

"Perhaps some mythological references," she thinks, distractedly, choking on smuggled French cigarettes.
"Perhaps adherence to a form no one gives a framed, numbered, limited edition shit about," she muses, head lolling in the oven, dramatically.

My love, &etc, she begins.
The next line has to do with the ovaries of cetaceans,
and the next devolves into impenetrable multisyllabic gobbledy-goop.

It wins an award.

The crap poet goes on to write an entire volume in which 
all the line breaks follow prepositions,
and articles are entirely absent.

Passing by
Arc de Triomphe in
ambulance with
salmonella kisses for
donkey-faced driver named Despair.

This shit wins a Pulitzer.

All hail the crap poet!
She blogs a free verse broadside twenty-eight miles wide
and ten feet tall.
It takes her five hundred followers two and a half seconds
to skim carefully down it all.

"Brilliant! Brilliant!" they cry.
"Here's mine!"

Crap poet soar!
Crap poet shine!
Within the year she is declared
Divine.
______

for dverse open link #64, hosted by the preternaturally talented Hedgewitch, a.k.a. my BFF!  

 

 

2012 Doomsday Theory

I carefully constructed a doomsday theory
with bible quotes, Mayans and graphs;

I told a cockroach my doomsday theory
and the cockroach

laughed.
_______

 

"Flowers" by GoldenMistPoet

"Flowers" by GoldenMistPoet

My garden explodes with much the petals, happening

Image! To colorful, the sun on its bicycle

Rides rainbow unicorns.

My heart the popping wow with rivers of passion...

Truck!

Elephant!

Oh, disease of love!
_____

(This poem is linked with Palsied Poets' Prank Phone Call, Jumble Word Head Injury, Sex With Llamas day 4, and Poetry Poop week 79.)

Comments:

Pink Eye said: This is fantastic! Here's mine: http://mymonkeyfacedkids.blogspot/ode-to-jello

Mist My Plants said: Great to see you at Jumble Word Head Injury!  

Prinjit Bollywoody said: So the good! How much dowry are offering does?

TooMuchSugar said: Wowwwwwwww!!!! OmGGGGG!!!! FanTAStic!

Prof. Richard Hedd Phd said: The allegory here is weak, and the exposition is dreadful. Please sign up for my fifty part instructional seminar. Syllabus and rates available at my blog Smog Balloon. Sign up and receive a complimentary embossed gold-leaf copy of my poem "From Whence The Trumpet Of Triton Blows", my epic poem which was published in the October, 1967 edition of Smudge College English Department Notes, pp 47-92.

YinYangGangsta said: thank for your coment at my blog. Yours is relly good!

Loboto-Me said: I like unicorns.  I believe they are real.

My Lips Hurt said: nice...smiles....kind of, i dunno....flowery...smiles...

Tom the Troll said: hi. r u into rubber fetish?

KickMe said: I read this and cried! it is the most beautiful thing I've ever read in my life! I even showed it to Weepy, my parakeet! We both cried! Then we read the back of a cereal box and cried! Wow!

There's Something In My Ear said: You continue to amaze me. This is just so brilliant and deep.

Fair Is Wheel said: I think that when you talk about rivers, you really mean roto-tillers, because your writing really gets below the surface. Or maybe you mean rapids or rabbits or something.  Or maybe you just need to pee.

Mirror Ball said: this is about me, isn't it?

They're Coming To Take Me Away said: Each brilliant line of this makes me shiver with delight. Email me. I want you to join my Writers' Gulag. Aliens stole my spleen. Try my meme!

Rhyme Time said: cat. hat. shat. haha.

Oldfatguy said: is that your real picture?

Jumble said: Very moving and heartfelt. I didn't really read it though.

Fireblossom said: this comment has been removed by a blog administrator
_______
 

Process Serving

Izy, at Real Toads, wants us to parody ourselves for her Out of Standard feature. Allrighty then.

Okay, genius. We need an opening line. 

It was a dark and stormy night.

Oh, truly, that's brilliant. You're such a fuckhead. Something original would be nice. So...rewind. Gimme a decent opening line.

I can't think of anything.

Well, why not just jump start it? You know, trot out some of the same old trusty shit and see if it flies.

A Gypsy walks into Danny's Coffee shop.

Good, that's a start! Sounds kind of like the intro to a bad joke, though...

Hey, so two femme lesbians go on a dinner date. Why did their legs get sore?

Why?

From standing up all night, waiting for the other one to pull their chair out for them.

Oh please.

Why did they have to walk home?

I guess you're gonna tell me?

No one brought the car around.

Are you done?

No. Why did they almost drown?

No one to fix the leaky faucet?

Oh. You heard that one. Well, what did they finally die of?

Bad jokes?

No, they died of old age, waiting for the other one to make the first move.

Can we write this poem? Can you stay focused long enough to do that?

I'm hungry. Doesn't a sandwich sound good? Then we could turn on tv and--

FOCUS!!!

All right. A Gypsy walks into Danny's Coffee Shop. 

Now throw in some random observation.

She wears five rings, one for each of her possible moods.

Which are?

Envy, sloth, lust, resentment and sniping?

That sounds like 7 Deadly Sins For Dummies, or something. You can do better.

Not for what you pay me.

Think! Come on. What are the Gypsy's five moods?

One ring is gold, for when she feels satisfied. The second is silver, like moonlight, for when she feels dreamy. Another is turquoise, like water, for when she feels deep and mysterious. One is brass, for when she feels bold and mouthy. 

You're on a roll! What's the fifth ring?

Ask Dante, maybe he knows.

Don't be an ass. Get back to the poem. You were actually getting somewhere with it.

You make me crazy when you're bossy.

Focusssssss...

All right. The fifth ring is made of bone, with a ruby stone, for when she feels passionate and broody, as if she might burn herself up from within.

You had me until that last bit. It feels tired. Punch it up.

For when she feels passionate and broody, a bryndle spirit wrapped in Old Country colors, a moment's flame between low ash and high smoke.

Yeah baby. Now throw in a dash of religious junk...

Even God stops counting the inventory and looks up, almost in spite of Herself, when the Gypsy walks in.

I think you can take it from here.

Huh? What are you gonna do?

Oh, I'm gonna go read Verse Escape, or Another Damn Poetry Blog. They can really write!

You bitch!

Thank you, thank you...
________

dubious cat is dubious about this post.
________