If there is a month for each apostle this must be the Judas month and you have now lived long enough to have been betrayed by everything you believed in. Did I just compare myself to Jesus? Things are worse than I thought. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
I have heard many silly taunts in my extensive time, and they are never more clever just because they rhyme. Ignorance should whisper like a muffled chime. I am not proud though you are too proud to see that when the Grand Bungler created you it also created me. I am not mighty or dreadful. I do not overthrow. Those are your birthmarks. You are your foe. Poison, war are a scaly brood for which I have no need. They hatched in the nest with you, and you are the fodder on which they feed. Chance is a monkey whose mischief ends at the tomb. Fate and sickness are encrypted when you are in the womb. You are the slave of desperate men and kings, who look like lice to me - or other insects without wings. I am a lantern at the end of day. I am not the Magnificent Fumbler, who gave you feeble DNA. I bring peace after you have done your worst, and while I may eventually die, you will die first. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Little boy Blue, social media guru, play with your tiny horn until your lips are blistered and your bony fingers are worn. Preening boy Blue, amazed by all you do, is there nothing you won't say in your constant quest for praise? Your dry deeds are only clicks away because posting them's what you do all day. Righteous boy Blue, sitting alone in your pew, you are the sun and air - the gaudiest billboard in Times Square. In a beat-up bathrobe you decide all - a wicked judge with a cellular maul. You render rulings in a few bytes or less. You condemn instantly but you do not bless.
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Your grief and rage are layers of peeling paint pasting together the rotted boards of a ramshackle house and when those layers are scraped away the bat-filled building collapses into a massive sink hole which gives birth to a ravenous mouth crammed with rows of shark teeth that devours everything I consider mine. So the night is long. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
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
Who throws pepper in the air so upstanding citizens will sneeze? Who slips sugar into milk so wholesome kids get cavities? Who hides the cherry flavored condoms so chaste teens get STDs? Once it was the evil fascists, then the dirty commies followed by the hairy hippies, Russians, Iraqis and Chinese who committed these depravities. So who will we blame next for giving us a mouthful of cavities? Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
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
These stained statues must be preserved through violence if need be because if they're not great neither are we.
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Chaos reigns supreme right here in my hand. Mother communicates by cartoon and I don't understand. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
We are thrilled to announce our first ever open mic poetry reading gala. 9:00 p.m., this Wednesday at Drinkie McFalldown’s Wee Irish Pub (where your drinks and your dignity come cheap) – Block Island’s favorite place to get blindingly drunk.
Do you approach poetry with humility? Are you concerned you don’t comprehend (even partially) life’s deepest mysteries? Well, fuck off.
We’re looking for self-confident poets who are prepared to give simple answers to complex problems. Do you have a loud voice and a tireless tongue? Are you unafraid of hecklers? Willing to throw a sucker punch? Then this is the stage for you.
And don’t forget our sponsor: Ted’s Definitely Used Cars – Home of the Definitely Used Smell.
Treacherous Gulp, Esquire – Master of Ceremonies