Why does Homer's Muse disdain me?
Why won't nymphs touch my flute?
When heroes sail the wine-dark sea
why do I stay home and salute?
When will I know love from lust?
Why do both turn my brain to peat?
Why are lies the only words I trust?
Why is mud the only pie I eat?
My miserable muse is a mouse in a cage
who refuses to obey my command
and when I touch the cold, chaste page
it slaps the dry pen out of my hand.
Wicked muse, eat your stale cheese
but blow your foul breath on another fake,
allow my feeble tongue to unfreeze
for I've forms to fill and calls to make
and I'm nearing the end of my coffee break.
Luvgood Cap, Editor-in-Chief
Tag Archives: Love
Miss Disdain
I met a girl whose smirk was fire
when on the edge of thirteen.
I'd been a boy unblemished by desire
before she burned her brand on me.
Her disdain drove me to distraction.
Her antipathy struck me as wise.
She taught joy brings no satisfaction
and contempt is Love's favorite disguise.
Miss Disdain grew up and multiplied,
and I have delighted in each Fury's spite.
Knowing all the flaws that I hide
their indifference can only be right.
She was the alpha of all cruel passions
whose touch would make lesser men wince
and in various forms and fashions
I've chased Miss Disdain ever since.
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Crows
I like how you describe that poem more than the poem itself. You see things I don’t, and the things you see have deep meanings – deeper perhaps than the poet intended.
You see birds symbolizing change. The young leave the old and neither knows the impact of the parting. Shockingly this lack of comprehension is of no consequence because there is love in the leaving.
Even after reading the poem several times, I see crows. I am not sure you are right, but I know you are not wrong.
I would like to see that poem as you see it. But whenever I see you and me in a mirror, I am reminded: you have poor eyesight and a temperament that is too tender. They are your most egregious shortcomings, and I have benefitted from both. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Absurdistan: Love and Geopolitics
Gary Shteyngart’s Absurdistan is a geopolitical romp that ends on September 10, 2001. But the book was published in 2006 – so make no mistake – 9/11 hangs over the narrative like an ominous cloud. Don’t make this mistake either – though 9/11 was a tragedy and geopolitical catastrophe, the novel is a raunchy and satirical examination of life when you’re a geopolitical pawn. And we’re all geopolitical pawns.
As the narrator, Misha Borisovich Vainberg, tells us in the prologue, this is a “book about love. But it’s also a book about geography.” The story opens on June 15, 2001. Misha is 30 years old and the son of the 1238th richest man in Russia. That’s because his father is a kleptocrat.
During the 1990s Misha attended Accidental College in the mid-west. As a result he adores America and rap music. His rapper name is Snack Daddy, because he loves all the snacks that have turned him into a self-described “fatso”. Unfortunately, his father called him back to Russia, and he is stuck there because dad killed a politically connected Oklahoman in St. Petersburg. Now the U.S. won’t let Misha back.
Misha hates Russia and its corrupt transition from the Soviet Union – even though he has benefitted tremendously from that corruption. “These miscreants were our country’s rulers. To survive in their world, one has to wear many hats – perpetrator, victim, silent bystander.” He’s desperate to get back to his girlfriend in the Bronx – so desperate he travels to Absurdistan, where he has been promised a Belgian passport that will enable him to finally return to the U.S.
Absurdistan does not exist in the real world. I googled it. However, in the novel it is one of the Stans in the former Soviet Union. It consists of several ethnic groups, and they all hate each other. As soon as Misha shows up, civil war breaks out and the borders are closed. Each ethnic group wants to use Misha for its own political purposes, and Misha wants to use them to escape to the Bronx and his girlfriend. Sex, humor, and violence ensue.
Similar to Candide, Misha is a “holy fool” who is wrong about pretty much everything. Near the novel’s end he confesses, “I thought I was Different and had a Special Story to tell but I guess I’m not and I don’t.” Fortunately, he’s wrong about that as well.
Gladiola Overdrive, Chief Editor
A Sort of Homecoming
Uncle was bad at everything Cape Cod cares about. He excelled in one way only: he loved my fault-finding aunt without reason. He was blessed in one way only: his indulgent family loved him without reason. Today we buried him next to my waiting aunt in the only home he has wanted for seven years.
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Facebook Friends
If a waning moon is still a moon then we were children. We were also wet and nearly naked, half-hidden in the dark, hoping our drunk parents would remain dumb. Our probing tongues made easy promises that tasted like truth with a dash of delusion. But now the moon is new and we are Facebook friends. We share our virtual lives; celebrate our virtual victories while still hiding in the dark. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief first published in Artemis
A Prayer for Less Love – MasticadoresUSA
We are thrilled that MasticadoresUSA has published our poem A Prayer for Less Love. We really appreciate their kind support.
A Prayer for Less Love I’ve heard what you say in the name of love and your favorite word is no. I’ve seen what you do in the name of love because the purple bruises still show. Please go here https://masticadoresusa.wordpress.com/2022/04/05/a-prayer-for-less-love-by-luvgood-carp/ if you would like to read the rest of the poem. Thanks very much. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
A Best Man Before the Toast
Love did not win today. It's only one for three. So what should I say as everyone stares at me? And him. Can we both be best? Should not I (or he - more likely) be a wedding guest? What an oxymoronic surprise! A lovely wedding jest - best becomes a pity prize awarded at an inquest. So what do you do when the woman you crave doesn't crave you? She will love no boy yet she is loved by two. Put us Don Quixote's employ - two donkeys on an impossible quest. Dress us in tuxedos of corduroy and tell everyone we are best. Kindness is the best way to condescend. You are the best but you're just a friend. A best friend - just like him. So what do I say as you stare at me? A slack-jawed caveman in a glass display. Love acts with wicked glee - in pursuit of its own perverse fun. To one, Love gives three. To two, Love gives none. Love doesn't give a crap about love, who's best, or what I need. So when will I stop shaking salt into the sea? Lovegood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
The Poet Taster
Why does Homer's Muse disdain me? Why won't nymphs touch my flute? When heroes sail the wine-dark sea why stay at my desk and salute? When will I know love from lust? Why is it both cause a stomachache? Why are lies all that I trust? Why is drool all that I make? My muse is a mouse in a cage who refuses to obey my command, and when I touch the cold chaste page it slaps the dry pen from my hand. Wicked muse, eat your stale cheese, blow your foul breath on another fake - allow my feeble tongue to unfreeze because I've forms to fill, calls to make, and I'm near the end of my coffee break. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
A Daughter Leaves for College
For eons or mere minutes on the clock among marble mansions on a cliffside walk or sewage-filled streets in a shantytown, if you shimmer in silk or wear a paper crown - 110 degrees or snow sideways blowing - should you be lost or know where you're going, whether friends are plenty or few, I will walk with you.
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Pungent Sound Journal of Pulp Poetry 