Something perverted in me loves these dire times when hyperbole is impossible. Where I can be delirious - as if my darkest desires are about to come true; pretend all is black or white and be rewarded for ignoring the gray. Hyperventilate with rage; spit darts in eyes and ears and face no consequences. Cry out for the holocaust; crave the apocalypse; pursue eschatology with the crazed fervor of an indignant desert prophet. Be breathless - full of passionate intensity, because this is the new abnormal that has been happening for thousands of years. And tomorrow, I will wake and do it all again, because some day I'll be right. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in- Chief First published in Door is a Jar Literary Magazine
Freedom of speech is a sacred right. That's my favorite cliche. But then I hear the stupid things people say and wonder if they need it every day. Perhaps each year they could have it for just a week then they'd have time to think before they speak. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
If a waning moon is still a moon then we were children. We were also wet and nearly naked, half-hidden in the dark, hoping our drunk parents would remain dumb. Our probing tongues made easy promises that tasted like truth with a dash of delusion. But now the moon is new and we are Facebook friends. We share our virtual lives; celebrate our virtual victories while still hiding in the dark. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief first published in Artemis
You and I were barely burned by the sun wearing worn out bathing suits - yours snugly hinting at the lures to come. Ecstatic flies swarmed the picnic table where the sawed-off head blankly watched as her body sizzled on the grill dressed in a green coat of lemon juice and dill. And you stood staring into her phlegm-colored eye as if the fish had a secret she wanted to confide; as if she beckoned you to jump on the grill and sizzle at her side because you, too, would swim against the tide only to have men feast upon your glistening body while you watched helpless and horrified. A future filled with so many sharks must have come as a nasty surprise because you grabbed a silver knife . . . those ravenous men should have seen that phlegm fly. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Now is not the time for questioning minds. Now is the time for Bud Light with lime because thinking is hard and hurts to boot - that's why you have me; I'm thinking's leisure suit. Slip me on and see how I fit. Plenty of room for belly and hip. Gaudy and garish like the colors of war - not that I have ever served before. No, that's a privilege for others to endure. I was created to talk non-stop. You were made to listen without thought so listen as I glorify a past never seen and scorch anyone who dares disagree with a wit fueled by methane gas and a tongue lodged so far up my ass, it makes me wobble when I walk and forces me to bend over when I talk or when I get enemas of warm liquid mint because my breath makes garbage men squint. But these burdens must be borne if I'm to keep my followers uninformed and hopefully by the end of my show there won't be anything for them to know. So turn the radio on and hear my jingle. May it give your tiny penis a tiny tingle. We'll put a boot up your ass - that's the American way. Apple pie served with a hand grenade. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
And then the flatulence - as always, without warning, permission or consideration.
It cares not whether I am surrounded by friends or strangers in a stuffy room where winter prohibits windows from being opened. Or whether I'm in a compact car filled with awkward silence and Serena - a winter woman I was trying to seduce. If only I could be a cow in a rolling meadow carpeted with buttercups.
Cows aren't bothered by flatulent friends. They find nothing funny about the lack of control age inflicts. Cows, with their wise, soulful eyes, know nothing dignified happens near the end.
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
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
I have seen some who appear lost in a maze with only a crust of bread in their pockets as they turn from dead end to dead end unable to see over the high thick hedges and only later did I learn they weren't lost at all. They were making maps. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
A straw man riding a sacred cow pulling a tethered scapegoat arrived in a town named Trope just when they were needed most. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
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