Tag Archives: Luvgood Carp

Paradise

I'll build a place that's mild and green
with stop signs on every street
and free and friendly citizens 
who'll never be allowed to tweet.

Cameras will float on blades;
security will be courteous but tight
so no one will grab my balls
on cheese and meatball subs night 
when I'll dance in a worried thong
and no one will mention cellulite.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

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

White Porcelain

Nothing proclaims privilege like white porcelain.
Its glossy surface reflects a prestige anyone can appreciate,  
though the privilege, surprisingly, is getting harder to preserve,
even here in this milk-white marbled executive suite
populated by the pale and mostly male descendants
of white porcelain’s original beneficiaries –
all of us attired in the traditional uniform
of extremely starched ivory shirts
and aggressively angry red ties.

So privilege, nowadays, does bring problems –
though, trust me, you will get no sympathy
from the plastic port-a-john people on this.
White porcelain, even when it is safely segregated
behind a locked door, to which I, alone,
possess the code, can still get sprayed –
as happens often when I assume
a standing position of casual authority
with my hands resting gently, yet firmly, on my hips.

And, sometimes, white porcelain can get spackled,
even when I am comfortably seated, skillfully
conducting a contentious board meeting by Zoom.

Of particular relevance right now,
white porcelain can get clogged when the flusher
thingy suddenly won’t work, which,
of course, I only learn too late;
when, let’s say, a large deposit
(the only kind I make)
has been dropped at the bank.

I pride myself on solving problems - even unwieldy ones.
But how do I make peace with this unexpected imposition?

Acknowledging it makes me human,
a thought I can’t abide.
Asking for help makes me humble,
an approach I will not try.
However, ignoring it makes me privileged,
and that just feels right inside.

Plus, there’s no harm done.
Tonight it will be disposed of
by someone I do not know
and will never meet.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

The Club

I was at the club when a golf ball shaped minister said
give him a second chance.  Hear what he has to say.
He makes more sense now that he's a CPA.

Then a putting preacher proclaimed the good news:
he went to Wharton and got an MBA.
Hearing that, I dropped to my knees and prayed.

And Jesus put aside peace in the Middle East
to sanctify the deductions I should take.
The truth depends, he chanted like a Gregorian,
on how much the Emperor thinks you make.

For you must render unto Caesar what is his
but only confess what he already knows
then set up a charity in the Caymans
and watch as your blessings grow.

I invited him for golf and a Bloody Mary or two.
But isn't your club anti-Semitic, he asked.
Jesus Christ, I laughed, you're not a Jew.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Titillation

This is a poem about my nipples.
I call it "Titillation" because that's a pun
and people pretending to be poets
use puns as the illiterati use memes:
to prove how clever we are.
So prepare to be impressed.

My nipples are erect all the time.
So reliably erect, when nothing else is.

In thin silky shirts they are steeples.
In thick cotton pullovers they are pimples.

Are they impressions that misleadingly point to titillation?

Or are they just sad signs for all to see
that my world has become cold?

I'm pretty sure that's a metaphor,
which again showcases my cleverness -
something I desperately want to convey.

You'll also find
I did not rhyme.
People pretending to be poets 
don't do that anymore.
It's crass.

And, yes, I know.
By writing about my nipples
I risk being accused of indulgence
and narcissism.
But that's a risk
people pretending to be poets
are perfectly happy to take.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

The Judas Month

If there is a month for each apostle
this must be the Judas month
and you have now lived long enough
to have been betrayed by everything you believed in.

Did I just compare myself to Jesus?
Things are worse than I thought.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Death Responds to Donne

I have heard many silly taunts
in my extensive time,
and they are never more clever
just because they rhyme.
Ignorance should whisper
like a muffled chime.

I am not proud
though you are too proud to see
that when the Grand Bungler
created you it also created me.

I am not mighty or dreadful.
I do not overthrow.
Those are your birthmarks.
You are your foe.

Poison, war are a scaly brood
for which I have no need.
They hatched in the nest with you,
and you are the fodder on which they feed.

Chance is a monkey
whose mischief ends at the tomb.
Fate and sickness are encrypted
when you are in the womb.

You are the slave 
of desperate men and kings,
who look like lice to me -
or other insects without wings.

I am a lantern at the end of day.
I am not the Magnificent Fumbler,
who gave you feeble DNA.

I bring peace after you have done your worst,
and while I may eventually die,
you will die first.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Little Boy Blue

Little boy Blue,
social media guru,
play with your tiny horn
until your lips are blistered 
and your bony fingers are worn.

Preening boy Blue,
amazed by all you do,
is there nothing you won't say
in your constant quest for praise?
Your dry deeds are only clicks away
because posting them's what you do all day.

Righteous boy Blue,
sitting alone in your pew,
you are the sun and air - 
the gaudiest billboard in Times Square.
In a beat-up bathrobe you decide all - 
a wicked judge with a cellular maul.
You render rulings in a few bytes or less.
You condemn instantly but you do not bless.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Nightmare

Your grief and rage are layers
of peeling paint pasting together
the rotted boards of a ramshackle house
and when those layers are scraped away
the bat-filled building collapses into 
a massive sink hole which gives birth
to a ravenous mouth crammed with rows
of shark teeth that devours everything
I consider mine.

So the night is long.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief