A Tiny Voice

   Yes, of course, 
   we, too, care about 
   a neglected rose struggling to survive
   among the scattered bricks
   of a crumbling house,
   but we've already done
   all we can.

   Remember
   a child has a tiny voice
   and no money -
   hardly the sturdy platform
   on which to make demands.

   Yet here she stands
   with her small voice,
   empty pockets, and
   accusing eyes,
   while we continue to tell her
   to trust the spider
   who swears
   he wouldn't hurt a fly.

   Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

First published in The Broadkill Review

Let the Poets Sleep Guilt Free

   Love takes nothing I don't freely give -
   so let the poets sleep guilt free.
   Though they tell shameless lies 
   and unwelcome truths,
   they can't grow roses on the moon.

   A poem won't cure cancer
   or stop a middle-aged man
   from being a bore.
   Poetry can't make me see 
   what I would rather ignore.
   And I choose to ignore a lot:
   how that look on your face is smug;
   or how you're the salt of the Earth
   and I'm the slug.

   Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief 

   First published in Scarlet Leaf Review

Tengo Leche

Titmouse Beak, here – CEO of Pungent Sound Technical College of Technology. One of the real treats of living in Roanoke is Breadcraft. http://breadcraftbakery.com. Every morning before work, I go there for a cup of freshly-brewed coffee and a delicious breakfast. Today it was mushroom and asiago cheese quiche. Wonderful! I am pecking at the crumbs now.

Then I go on Facebook and look up former girlfriends; check on former students – sometimes they are one and the same. Today I saw a post from Tengo Leche. No idea who he is – except he is a former student who has gone on to do great things. Just goes to show that a degree from Pungent Sound Technical College of Technology is well worth the mountain of debt you will have after you leave. Here’s Tengo’s post.

Neptune Returns Home

   Lord, could it be I'm not as great
   as they've been telling me?

   I was told at an early age
   that I'm better than the rest.
   I have the trophies that prove it true.
   But now in every single contest
   I'm beaten by more than a few.

   For years I splashed in a tub
   pretending to rule the wine-dark sea.
   But now when I go to Dad's club,
   no one confuses Neptune with me.

   So here I am back in my old room
   (having finished my education)
   with an hourly job and minimum pay
   and these trophies say "participation."

   Lord, club-footed Byron couldn't dance
   but You gave him eloquence and artistry,
   and now he's the avatar of romance.
   So, Lord, what will you do for me?

   Lord?

   Tengo Leche, Former Student of Pungent Sound Technical College of Technology
    

Facebooklandia

   Uncle is an incontinent scold from a sanctimonious country
   inhabited by howler monkeys and screech owls
   who love to lecture but hate to listen.

   In this brave new world
   virtual friends are actual strangers
   who prance, preach, and provoke
   (but mostly they just preen)
   while weaving outrage and electrons
   into a community quilt so thick it smothers.

   Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

FLACCID at Pungent Sound

Pungent Sound Technical College of Technology recently welcomed Firearms Loving Americans Constantly Confronting Innovation and Decency (FLACCID), who held their annual convention celebrating the Second Commandment of the U.S. Constitution.

FLACCID members were everywhere. And they invited our school chaplain, Father Orifice (pronounced Orifeechee – people always say it wrong for some reason), to give the opening prayer. Father Orifice proudly reports, “FLACCID members stood at attention throughout the prayer – it was a glorious thing to see.” So with such positive reviews, we decided to print his prayer here and hopefully you’ll be equally aroused to action.

The Second Commandment

   God is a Gun.
   And the Son of God is a Gun - 
   making God, Son, and Gun one.

   And God sent his only Gun to man
   so slights and sins could be avenged
   and trespasses need not be forgiven.

   And you shall not separate man from Gun
   lest you feel the wrath of Gun.

   Father Orifice, Chaplain of Pungent Sound Technical College of Technology

Pungent Sound Announces Its First Annual Poetry Contest

Having done our fair share of surfing the net, we have encountered numerous poetry contests. For a fee, journals will pretend to consider your poem for a prize no one has ever heard of. Then, they will award the prize to some friend or acquaintance; give that friend or acquaintance a pittance; and keep most of the money for themselves. We thought – that’s brilliant. We should do that, too.

So because we need money, we are accepting submissions for our first ever annual poetry prize. Please submit your poem, along with the $99.99 entry fee. The prize winner will receive a used tote bag from Block Island Trading Company. (http://blockislandtradingcompany.com). Our lawyer, Treacherous Gulp, insists we post this disclaimer. Block Island Trading Company is not a sponsor of this contest. In fact, they know nothing about it. We just have an old sand-crusted tote bag that we purchased years ago.

We are looking for poems on freedom – the kind that only money can buy. Your verse should soar with the buoyancy of a pink pebble that has landed on the back of a musical wasp without changing the wasp’s flight trajectory or a single note of its song. Importantly, the poem should not rhyme (not even by accident). Nor should the poem be humorous (because poets aren’t funny). Rhyming and/or humorous poems make us vomit. Poets writing such tripe are not creating art. They are simply covering themselves with zoo filth. So please stop.

By submitting a poem you agree that we possess perpetual ownership rights over the poem. We will be able to do whatever we want with it, which includes ignoring it and never sending you a response or feedback. You, of course, will surrender all rights and agree to never think about it again. You also agree not to sue us if we remove your name from the poem and pretend that we wrote it.

Finally, we believe that poets should not be subject to any artificial barriers, such as talent or skill. So anyone may submit, but that does not mean we will actually read your poem.

Good luck! We look forward to receiving your money!

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Precious Little Useless Things

   What do we call the innocent?
   Those precious little useless things
   we honor with large words
   and then largely ignore.

   As we do ethics.  Or courtesy.

   Better yet - 
   those prophets of doom
   with science degrees.
   What do we call them?

   Oh, yes, we call them fools.

   Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief and Adjunct Professor for Student Loans

Love Mark

Love dashed out the door with a surprising speed not suspected before.
So I pulled on my pants and chased her to the lawn, but Love
had turned the corner and she was gone.  Love must have had
her running shoes on.

So I jumped in my car and drove all around, searched the whole town
with a trusty bloodhound, but when Love left she covered her track.
Now my wife's jewelry is gone, and Love demands bitcoins, or
she won't bring it back.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Considering

   I can justify anything I fail to do
   simply by saying I have done my best
   considering the meager gifts given me.
   For example, I can't run fast
   but I have done my best
   considering the vast distance between us -
   how the terrain is so treacherous
   and my flat feet can only shuffle
   because my shoes are sandbags with iron laces.
   So though your need is great (as it always is)
   I will come to you when I can.
   I am doing my best, considering . . . 

   Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief and Adjunct Professor for Student Loans

Let’s Talk About Us – But Really Just Me

Hello! I am consistently amazed at the number of modern poets who can’t get published. Mostly, however, I am amazed that I can’t get published.

That’s why we started the Pungent Sound Journal of Pulp Poetry – to celebrate great poets whose greatness (for some stupid reason) has not been recognized by . . . anyone. So let’s start celebrating by reading one of my poems.

Each Spring Beckons Me Out the Door

A fuzzy pink sweater adorns the cherry tree
and all the ladies half my age are smiling at me.

Or so it seems -
maybe they're just smiling near me.
It's hard to see with such watery eyes,
as if I'm looking through melting ice.

Each spring beckons me out the door,
but I'm moving slower than the year before
and can't keep up as the ladies walk past.
When did these women get so fast?

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief and Adjunct Professor for Student Loans