Thoughts on the Dangers of Pretending to be a Poet (Part 5)

Delusions of grandeur. Pretend poets think they’re special. Which is ridiculous. Poetry never saved a life. It hasn’t cured cancer. I’m certain it never will considering how much liquor it drinks.

Have you read Lewis Carroll? Pure nonsense.

So this is a message to everyone who pretends to be a poet (and that is every poet living and/or dead): get a real job. You will be happier and so will your family. Poetry has never solved any problem. You know what has? Money and hotels.

If my lazy-ass son had a real job, instead of masturbating all day and calling it a poetry blog, he wouldn’t keep asking me for money. I wouldn’t keep telling him no, and I would love him.

Poetry is easy. I will show you. I literally wrote this off the top of my head three minutes ago.

The Ballad of Knowgood Carp 

I know damn well
when I cast my spell
I will be okay
on the Judgment Day
because I have more money
so I can buy God's honey
and if I want to bone ya'
what I'll do is phone ya'.

Do better than that, B.S. Eliot.  I defy you.

Knowgood Carp, Owner of all the Hotels on Block Island and Some in Connecticut

Breaking News

A cow covered with hundreds of mouth-like lesions   
each containing a tongue that lovingly licks my ear -    
tells me all the black lies I desperately want to hear;    
a massive udder with hundreds of mottled leathery teats    
and I suck the sour milk.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Becoming William

Having written a poem
I now realize
I am a genius.
So I take what I want
and need not ask forgiveness -
because I do these things for you,
dear reader.

I have stolen William's plums -
the ones he originally 
stole himself. 
I devoured them.
They were, indeed, delicious
so sweet and so cold.

But I need not ask forgiveness.
His plums nourished me
as my sweet lyrics now nourish you,
dear reader.

I watched another William 
as he plucked silver and golden apples
and when he bent over
to put them in his sack
I plucked him.

I plucked him good and hard
and for a long time.
Then I trampled his dappled grass.

But I need not ask forgiveness.
His apples sustained me
as these graceful notes now sustain you, 
dear reader.

I heard a third William
as he obsessed about his stewed prunes,
which had caused him to grow horns
where his rapidly receding hair had been.

I grabbed his wrinkled prunes
and squeezed the sour juice.
From that weak stream
I concocted a cocktail,
which I drink to his health 
even as he steams in the stew.

But I need not ask forgiveness.
His prunes seduced me, 
as these charming melodies now seduce you,
dear reader.

I shall now write my second poem.
It will be a sonnet.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

The Girl With Ocean Eyes

A spiced-rum girl with ocean eyes
big-bellied sailboats and osprey cries
the climbing sun in full splendor
but foolishly I did not surrender.

I had promising places to be.
My spiced-rum girl would wait for me.

The osprey and big bellied boats gone
all my assumptions of the future wrong
pink fingers release a sinking sun.
Girls with ocean eyes wait for no one.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

The Dray Horse

He gave the last full measure of devotion
without receiving recognition or promotion.
Living on the muted end of a video call
a dray horse working quietly in his stall
until found back turned to a virtual door,
glued to his chair, feet fixed to the floor,
staring searchingly into the electric blue
as if it could tell him what is true.
A conch squeezed tightly in his shell
bothering no one until he started to smell.

His cramped cubicle was in the last row.
It was a long way away so I would not go.
Instead I sent work to him by email
which he would respond to without fail
but then there were unusual delays.
To be fair, he'd been dead for two days
staring into the vast electric blue
as his work lined up in a virtual queue.

Now the accountants have correctly said
he shouldn't be paid for the days he was dead.
So I hope his family won't give me flak
when I call to get that money back.

Accountants - they're not virtual or new. 
That's what I see inside the electric blue.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Chicken Pol Pot

We were in Cambodia YumYum when Karen asked 
if they serve General Tso.  Laughingly I said no, 
but they do have Chicken Pol Pot, which is to die for.

It starts out sweet but then the heat hits like a bullet 
to the head.  And though I doubt this is true, Karen swears 
I told her to get the Khmer Rouge dumplings too.

My Cheshire grin should have been a clue but when the waiter 
walked over Karen gave her order and onto the sidewalk I flew.

It was just a silly genocide joke, but some people spurn humor like others malign salt.  Then they pretend to be offended and act as if it's my fault.

Hey, I'm the one who left before I could finish my beer.  Seems to me -
I'm the victim here.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief 

Reading to My Son’s Class on Dead Poets Day

Mind you, most parents would pick
a stupid Seuss story and read it quick,
but those were things read long ago
when TVs had rabbit ears and winters snow.
Now kids understand the value of time
and their tastes for entertainment are far more refined.

Kids love poetry; they love to tell jokes,
and since this is about them, I've decided to do both.
So in honor of the day, I say
we must find a poet to put in a grave.

The kids look up, startled a bit,
but I assure them it's easy because poets aren't fit
so the odds of one winning a fight are slim
and I wink at the teacher as there's a bit of the poet in him.

I then recite The Walrus and the Buffalo
because kids love aged men who are full of woe,
which brings me next to Sylvia Plath
because that crazy bitch always makes me laugh.

Then I get an idea that's so sublime.
But would it be indulgent to read one of mine?
I could because I've written quite a few
and it would only be indulgent if I read them two.

Once I have finished speaking my lines
I realize fifty minutes wasn't enough time.
But the teacher jumps saying I must be on my way
and I leave to the acclaim only silence can convey.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief