This is a work of poetry; as such, it is the product of the author's
imagination, and any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is definitely
not coincidental in any way, shape, or form. On the contrary, it is clearly intended
to enlighten the reader as to the character of the splashy, hubris-filled blowhard
now playing hack actor playing at playing the role of the most powerful man in
the world—a part soon to be assumed and straightaway transmogrified into a bit player’s
nightmare by a most desperately driven, artful director called Nemesis.
Used to be You could tell how
Hot you were from how Much fake precipitation dripped
From your forehead As you manipulated your way
Up Broadway to no end—what A farce, my no longer cool friend!
No more easily anticipated Big splash round the bend,
"The question of the nature of navel fluff seems to concern more people than one would think at first glance.” – Dr. Georg Steinhauser, chemist
Reflecting One way or another On the idea that Idiot in its ancient Greek sense did not Mirror what it means today,
But rather someone so Caught up in his self- Importance that he is Useless to society really Makes one kind of wonder, Does it not?
Moderator’s comments: Huuk, I suppose it does but if so, shouldn’t that questioning spirit supply us with real answers rather than ending in a vapid query that does nothing but prolong the agonizing naval-gazing status quo that characterizes a great deal of contemporary poetry, yours included?
Oh yes Indeed, we aim To please the tired, The teeming destitute Derelict masses washed up Like so much flotsam On our shores, By keeping our eyes Always on target, Even if it means losing What we set out for.
My head buzzing Over the latest crazed Talk of imminent war, I try To forget by spending A good part of the morning Under the shelter Of our Judas tree, Taking in the inebriated Bees as they bomb cluster After cluster of deep pink Flowers —I know It makes no sense Whatsoever but I hope The bees don’t start Making a beeline For the wine cellar.
The refugee from who-knows-where who spent all night freezing On a park bench while you were feeding your fireplace With presto logs does not want to hear what you’ve been doing To save the planet; he wants to see you walk over a bed of hot coals Holding your head on a silver platter and not get burnt.
Not living as long as we do, Chickens do not have the time Nor our bird-brained inclination To piddle over whether or not There’s some kind of god working Wonders way up there above the weather; You can see an example of this When their gullets are parched And the nearest watering Hole’s dry as all get-out, Soon as they hear the rumbling Of nimbuses rolling their way, Straightaway they tilt Their dusty, wide-open beaks Upwards, look God square In the face and before you Know it—by thunder— Start gurgling
Yes, yes—I know you think You’re a poet but . Have you never thought You’re a poet only . When writing and not Ballyhooing in a cage before . The likes of John Q. Public Like a monkey in a zoo? . If not, please note such Knowledge helps you . Keep your mind composed, Off the subject and not . Going bananas if you do.
Moderator’s comment: Call me Ishmael, mate, but if you can’t see that this is a bull’s eye gaff from that grand old man of piercing wit and sure-fire aplomb aimed at those blubbering pompous purveyors of purloined poetry, you don’t know a “gaff” from a “gaffe” and it’s time to put a patch over your “good” eye, too.
*for more edification on your way to becoming this murky body of poetry’s complete (sic) angler, go to