Tag Archives: Poetry

Empty Boxes for Cats

Inconceivable!
Did he not see the signs?

I am sure that he did.
Still, he refused to comply.

Did you politely ask him to stop?

I certainly did,
and he said he would not.
Instead he mocked me much more,
did a lewd dance - 
called my mother a whore.

Inconceivable!
He can't insult people here.
It's simply not allowed -
the signs make it perfectly clear.
And your mom's not a ho.
Has he even met her?
Is there something he may know?

Oh, he knew what he was doing.
He saw the signs and smirked.
Then the profanity started spewing.

But the signs should have kept him away -
like empty boxes ward off cats
and old people avoid Tampa Bay.
Why does he keep saying such vile stuff?
Could it be the signs aren't big enough?

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Dr. Emoji

My wife was making coffee
when the beast flopped on her head
so she screamed and she shook
and I jumped out of bed
to find a leather-clad succubus
spread-eagle on the floor
so I quickly grabbed my broom
and swept it out the door.

Then I gave my wife a tactful kiss, 
before recalling that's a mistake
because every time I touch her lips
my stomach starts to ache.

In the bathroom brushing my teeth
foam gushed down my chin.
It made a frothy bubble beard,
and my head started to spin.

So I hurried to the computer,
went to WhatsWrongWithMeMD,
typed all my ails in a tiny box 
and clicked on the medic emoji
who quickly appeared to look at my face,
and without pausing for thought
said I have herpes, rickets, or rabies
and atrophy in a private spot.

So here I am at urgent who cares
answering why, what, and where
when Dr. Emoji has already seen me
and says I have no time to spare.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

A Best Man Before the Toast

Love did not win today.
It's only one for three.
So what should I say
as everyone stares at me?
And him.

Can we both be best?
Should not I
(or he - more likely)
be a wedding guest?

What an oxymoronic surprise!
A lovely wedding jest -
best becomes a pity prize
awarded at an inquest.

So what do you do
when the woman you crave
doesn't crave you?
She will love no boy
yet she is loved by two.

Put us Don Quixote's employ - 
two donkeys on an impossible quest.
Dress us in tuxedos of corduroy
and tell everyone we are best.

Kindness is the best
way to condescend.
You are the best
but you're just a friend.
A best friend - just like him.

So what do I say
as you stare at me?
A slack-jawed caveman
in a glass display.

Love acts with wicked glee -
in pursuit of its own perverse fun.
To one, Love gives three.
To two, Love gives none.

Love doesn't give a crap
about love, who's best,
or what I need.
So when will I stop
shaking salt into the sea?

Lovegood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Thoughts on the Dangers of Pretending to be a Poet (Part 4)

You get lots of rejections. Here is the relevant half of the third rejection I received today – only a quarter hour ago.

Hahahaha. No . . . just no. But please submit to us again if you are so inclined.

So inclined? What does that mean?

If you are so inclined to get rejected again?

If you are so inclined to annoy us again?

If you happen to have some free time, and you are so inclined to waste it?

Or are they paraphrasing my favorite poet, Monty Python? Now, go away, and if you come back I shall taunt you a second time.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Why Are You Clutching a Cat?

Did the kitty commit a crime
and in your imagination's prison
is this how felons do their time?

Or did no one want to sit with you
because humans find your company
as terrifying as cats do?

Do you crush anything that's cute?
Should we notify the ACLU
or wait for PETA to file a lawsuit? 

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Union Street

Let's go down to Union Street
where all the impoverished people meet
around barrels brimming with green despair.
They'll fidget nervously while we stare
as each in turn will dip a cup
lift to trembling lips and drink it up.

On Union Street the barrels overflow
so we'll see many rounds before we go
and when they've drunk themselves blind
we'll leave through a door they'll never find.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Darwin’s Prophet Published in Edge of Humanity Magazine

We sincerely thank Edge of Humanity Magazine for publishing our poem Darwin’s Prophet. Edge of Humanity is a wonderful magazine that publishes all kinds of writers and artists.

A link to the poem is here. https://edgeofhumanity.com/2022/01/09/darwins-prophet/

Or, if you like, you can read the poem below.

Darwin’s Prophet

Is this a fist I see which approaches my face
with steroid-assisted velocity?
Or is this a fist of the mind, an immaculate conception, 
gestating in a beer-soaked brain.

If real, that news report now rings true:
we are indeed evolving into crabs
because the fist is truly crustacean-like
huge as a Caribbean conch shell
with blue enameled calluses;
spikey ridges serving as knuckles.

Having now considered the fist close-up
perhaps it was wrong of me to so freely
and so loudly share my concerns about
your too obvious and too intimate
relations with your mother.
After all, you are simply ensuring 
your odd traits will be inherited.

So, good for you, Darwin's Prophet!

Managing to crawl all by yourself
through the septic foam fringing the shoreline
and learning to adapt in a new environment.
Your flat head and crooked legs 
proclaim that you are the pathfinder
in evolution's wilderness.

And well done, too, Darwin's Pharmacist!

Opting for an unnatural selection of supplements
to enhance bulk and brawn over brains.
Your scrunched brow crusted with barnacles
and those black pebbles passing as eyes
affirm that in the future only mutants
will be fit to survive.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

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