Tag Archives: Poetry

The Judas Month

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

Death Responds to Donne

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

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

Nightmare

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

Thoughts on the Dangers of Pretending to be a Poet (Part 5)

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

Cavities

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

Breaking News

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

Pungent Sound Open Mic Night

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