I stole a frozen chicken and tried some Voodoo. I prayed to Shiva but I'm not Hindu. Magic 8 ball said gotta go. The lucky charm I rubbed was actually just a dildo. I brought to Jesus all my desperate pleas, but though he loves the poor he loves us on our knees. So when's your home not your home? When it's owned by the bank you dumb fuck, and the bank wants you out. I diligently worked my way down every dead end street taking every detour I could take - like rubbing a dildo for hours until my hands ached. Now the neighbors line the street. Police pound at my door. Mr. Diligent Dumbfuck went and got a gun because dildos won't do anymore. Luvgood Carp, Chief Editor
Unlike some gentlemen, I was never tempted by twins. They never captivated me - until that pink-driven spring when I encountered your proud peaks in a downy form-fitting sweater. Then I couldn't get twins off my mind. I will also confess surprise that you pounced upon my timid feeler. I expected you three to ignore me. Even more - I expected you to run after that first fumbling night of errant probes and prods, but you stayed. Eventually, winter came, but you did not come with it. That left me cold and relieved. There was a time during that fevered summer when I was concerned I should love you less. But that would have been impossible. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
When all the months were hot July and I was barely in my teens, I met a sullen girl with a fiery eye that she always directed towards me. Such disdain drove me to distraction; her antipathy struck me as wise. She taught joy brings no satisfaction, and scorn is Love's truest disguise. Miss Disdain grew up and multiplied, and I delighted in each fury's spite. Being aware of all the flaws that I hide, their indifference could only be right. She was the alpha of all cruel passions whose touch made lesser men wince, and in various forms and fashions I have chased Miss Disdain ever since. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief and Adjunct Professor for Student Loans
We recently joined the Block Island League of Players Playing Pickleball, and it’s terrific. We love pickleball so much we wrote a poem about it.
My Grandfather's Defense of Pickleball: The Pudding of Sports Hey, wise ass! What's wrong with pickleball? It's the fastest growing sport played by the slowest moving people. It's beloved by thousands with thick wrinkles and thin bones. Someday you'll have heavy titanium knees. And sadistic doctors will screw you in more places than you can count. Then, you'll enjoy the light slap of lazy plastic balls. I suppose you young guys like it when big inflated balls rapidly smack you in the face. And pudding is soft and delicious. So suck it! Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief and Adjunct Professor for Student Loans
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. You say you're a man of love but that sounds dangerous to me, so bring me no more love and show me simple courtesy. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief and Adjunct Professor for Student Loans First published in Ariel Chart
I was staring at the Peaks of Otter http://blueridgeparkway.org/poi/peaks-of-otter, which are right outside Roanoke, when this poem came to mind. I hope you like it.
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 and Adjunct Professor for Student Loans First Published in Defenestration.