Chinos

Now this is progress.
The trash trucks are new
crisp and clean.
I can see my silver reflection
deep inside the battleship gray panel
protecting the womb where the waste is crushed.

This speaks well of my city -
removing the rust belt that trapped it
inside grungy jeans covered with coal dust.
The city can now put on a nice pair of chinos
and reasonably hope the beige stays clean.

The trucks glide to a tuneful stop
and the refuse managers emerge from the cranium
in crisp clean battleship gray uniforms.
They tenderly lift the comatose
larva-like addicts and homeless
and gently place them in the womb.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

  First Published in BOMBFIRE

Denise Denies It All

But Denise
the ceilings have ears
and eyes are in every wall.

Argus hides in the cloud spying 
on your Uncle Sam bobble doll,
which nods nervously on the dash
looking for a place to crawl.

And if Argus spies it
then she spies you
because no one accuses 
you of being small.

Everything you hide is a peepshow 
behind a thin glass wall.
Every lewd whisper and Judas kiss
is recorded for instant recall.

But Denise -
Denise denies it all.

Luvgood 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

Do You Pretend to be a Poet? Don’t Quit Your Day Job

Hello readers of this pointless blog. I am supposedly Luvgood’s father. That’s what I’ve been told, at least – even though every blood test has come back “inconclusive”. More importantly – I own every hotel on Block Island. But please don’t pigeonhole me. I am so much more than that. I am human, and I also own hotels in Connecticut.

When Luvgood informed me that he was going to devote his life to poetry, I told him don’t quit your day job. So then he quit his day job. And he has been asking me for money ever since. Being a good father, I have refused. He obviously needs to grow up and quit pursuing his dreams.

As an older, distinguished white man, I am burdened with the responsibility of constantly giving unsolicited advice. If you are pursuing your dreams, don’t quit your day job. I need workers. I need to support my lavish lifestyle. Don’t be selfish.

Knowgood Carp, Owner of All the Hotels on Block Island (and Some in Connecticut)

The Court of Last Resort

It’s easy to know when I’m about to make a bad student loan. I ask 3 questions. Is the borrower studying for a degree in social work? Is the borrower attending a for-profit college like Pungent Sound Technical College of Technology? Does the borrower want a career where she selfishly works to help other people?

If the answer is yes to any of these questions, the borrower will never be able to pay back the $200,000.00 loan I am about to give her. Still, I make the loan. Then I hound her all the way to bankruptcy court. If she can’t discharge the loan (and usually you can’t), I continue to hound her after bankruptcy.

If I were lovable, the bankruptcy court would be my lover. The relationship will be wildly dysfunctional. But the sex would be charged and dangerous. I wrote a poem about it.

The Court of Last Resort

Some of us get a dime
even though a dollar is due
and some of us pay a dime
even when we have so few.

So everyone here has
lots of reasons to lie
because in the court of last resort
you keep what you can hide.

Titmouse Beak, President of Pungent Sound Community Bank

Blood Diamonds

   When it comes to comprehending numbers,
   don't listen to the poets -
   if they understood basic math,
   they wouldn't be poets.
   Listen to the accountants, instead.

   A poet will sing how 
   13 is an unlucky number
   (no feat of the imagination there).
   She may even pull out her license
   and irrationally rhyme 
   how some numbers are unethical.

   As if ethics applies to math and money.

   An accountant will cogently observe
   that no matter what 13 may be
   it is not a big number.
   17 is bigger - though still not big.
   27, 32, 50, and 59 are big
   but no bigger than a modest PR problem.

   13 does not make a synagogue a concentration camp.

   Especially when 13 is actually 12
   because the killer was 1.

   The accountant will clarify 
   that 12 is much smaller than
   billions.

   The poet will protest:
   billions is the sound of 
   outdoor concerts becoming killing fields
   and classrooms becoming slaughterhouses.
   Poets call those children and concertgoers
   blood diamonds.

   An accountant now concerned about the bottom line
   will counter that "blood diamonds" is
   a misleading and malicious metaphor
   manufactured by malcontent poets
   to cynically incite the sympathies of simpletons.

   There hasn't been a market for blood diamonds in years.

   So children and concertgoers are not blood diamonds.
   They aren't even innocent bystanders - 
   because they were terrified,
   when the shooting started,
   and tried to run away.

   If you must name them,
   the accountant will conclude that 
   the children and concertgoers were
   coal ash or feathers
   or other unavoidable byproducts
   of businesses worth billions.

   What, the accountant would like to know,
   is a poem worth?

   Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

   First published in The Broadkill Review

Anne

   You are all the poems
   I cannot write.
   You are all the words
   I dare not speak -
   not because they would deceive
   but because they would disappoint.

   So these words
   (knowing my perverse reliance on flippancy and sarcasm
   as shield and sword to repel every honest sentiment)
   prefer to be stillborn.

   It is ironic really
   because with everything else
   my words run rampant.
   There is no end to all the thoughtless things I say.

   But with you -
   words disdain my tongue
   and silence shields me from repelling you.

   Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief   

   First Published in Ariel Chart 

Winner of Pungent Sound’s Poetry Contest

We are thrilled to announce that Luvgood Carp has won Pungent Sound’s first annual poetry contest with his poem, The Muse of Prune Poetry. We wish to send our hearty congratulations to him, as this is an incredible accomplishment. And we would like to thank our judge, Luvgood Carp, for his tireless work in making this happen. Please enjoy the winning entry below.

The Muse of Prune Poetry

The generic stuff won't do
because my bloviating muse
demands the artisan brews.
He . . . she . . .  it
(I don't know which)
is no service dog.
It's a different kind of bitch
with a pedigree that's more
buffoonery than ancestry.

And me?
I'm more beggar than beneficiary -
told to appreciate what is given me.

And what do I receive?
At night when I go to bed
it plucks gold and silver prunes
and chucks them at my head.
Or it nuzzles next to me,
snoring through a nose
that looks like Swiss cheese.

But when I'm on my knees
begging for inspiration
(and the only thing I see
is that wedge of Swiss cheese);
when I pray for a phrase,
word or half a thought,
a couplet or participle
(it could dangle or not).
When I start to cry
because I don't know why
this alcoholic muse is mine,
it frowns and gives me a frosty reply:

How's this for a thought?
Poets get what they deserve
and that's what you got.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief 

First Published in Lighten Up Online