Home Leaving

   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

Twins

   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

Miss Disdain

   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 

Pickleball

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

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.

   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 

Titillation

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.

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 and Adjunct Professor for Student Loans

   First Published in Defenestration.