Keeping Up With The Papadopouloses

Where once there was 

A small windy outhouse 

 

With swatches of news-

Paper nailed to bare brick 

 

Wall next to a gaping 

Hole, now indoors 

 

A cutting-edge vitreous fixture 

And roll of three-ply

 

Ass-wipe unwinding, caressing

Expansive cool 

 

Marble floor. 

 

–-Vassilis Zambaras 

 

 

NB: From the debut issue of Defecation Reflex, which is (according to the editors’ mission statement) “an explosive and absorbing new upfront poetry magazine designed to blow the britches off the asinine mainstream poetry establishment.”

 

Downtrodden

Justice reigns 

Supreme and holding 

Court only when endowed 

 

With the highest 

Esteem towards the lowest 

 

Of the lowly, unless 

The majority of the ‘highly 

 

Esteemed' powers that be

Just happen to be 

 

The lowest of the lowest 

Scum, perhaps you 

 

Don’t agree?

 

1922: Introducing Mr. T. S. E. Gibbous, Esq.

Ambivalent egg- 

Head way out there, suspended 

 

In your inner sanctum, why so 

Tilting brightly? One might wonder, 

 

Somewhat nonsensically, of course, 

You might be reflecting 

 

On the light that’s not 

Yours to begin with, and how 

 

Your bang-up saga might end— 

Sunny side up or scrambled 

 

With heady green cheese and deviled 

Portions of furtive darkling whimpers soon 

 

To be wasting away in a mooning 

Sea of sublimated tranquility.

 

 

 

How To Write Knockout Poetry

Once you’ve closed in 

On putting a new piece down, 

Give it the good old mercy shot— 

No use beating another 

Dead horse into the ground. 

 

 

 

 

 

Irresistible Spatial Consummation

Once written, poetry starts 

Straightaway withdrawing, only 

 

To finish at what seems to be 

The slightest distance, still 

 

Twitching in ecstasy, light 

Years away. 

 

 

 

 

 

Multitudinous Pedestrian Onlookers

Flooding 

 

Our retinas are vistas so 

Numerous and magnificent how 

 

Is it we notice only those 

Most insignificant 

 

Of ripples floating by? 

 

 

 

 

 

I Too, Robert Frost, Thought I Took The Road Less Traveled

Frosty-haired sleepy one, trying 

Hard to keep both eyes 

Open but still 

Anxious to see

 

The next poem 

Leap from out of the thick 

Underbrush of a seemingly 

Endless peripatetic mind, 

 

I cannot but feel how 

Many uncharted miles 

You must have covered before 

Discovering you had a driving need 

 

To fall asleep less, too.

 

Haiku: Fleeing Inspiration

Low dark clouds scudding 

Over bare thirsting mountains— 

 

No stop for respite. 

 

 

 

Muse: Dear Boy, Bear With Me

The unborn 

Script you have 

 

Still to write, how 

Much longer can you bear not 

 

To issue it? This is not— 

And I repeat—a mere trifling 

 

Rhetorical question 

You are free to answer 

 

At your own discretion, 

But one you must dispatch 

 

With no waste of time or talent, 

And swear never again 

 

To shame my good name 

By writing plodding 

 

Shoddy verse under 

A slew 

 

Of shady noms de plume; 

It’s either that or else. . . 

 

Abort, sport and don't bother 

Cleaning up that bloody 

 

Mess you always leave so

Artfully behind you. 

 

 

 

 

 

Skewed Cyclopean With Doppelganger

Polyphemus, my good man— 

Had you but two 

 

Good eyes instead of one 

Skewered one, one 

 

Fine day you might well 

Find yourself standing 

 

Before a looking-glass looking 

At yourself like No Man 

 

Ever did without 

Ever once seeing double, 

 

But I wouldn't 

Bet my eye-teeth on it.

 

Beginning Of A Thought Truncated By The Arrival Of A Sparrow

There is ample reason. . . .why 

This train of thought was 

Derailed before it could 

Reach wherever it was 

 

Going is anybody’s 

Guess but who’s 

 

To say the arrival of this 

Flighty interloper does not 

Signal a necessary 

Deviation from the norm, 

(Whatever norm means in this 

Day and age). 

 

In the meantime, if I choose 

To bask in the knowledge 

That observing this twittering 

Bird on the edge 

Of a myrtle branch so 

It can better reach those pungent, 

Bittersweet berries is a balm 

To my balanced but at times still

 

Tottering soul, who’s to say 

"You are wrong in thinking so."

 

 

 

Lasting Stillborn Issue

Keep producing 

Shorter and shorter poems 

Devoid of any feeling 

 

And before you know it, 

You’ll find yourself standing 

In front of a maternity ward window 

 

With nothing to show for it 

Save longer and longer 

Pregnant silences.

 

 

Say What?

There’s always more 

To be said once 

 

You say it so you can 

Say it again. 

 

 

 

Long-winded Poet Running Out Of Steam?

From where I’m sitting, here

In the boondocks

 

Of the southern Peloponnese 

And nowhere

 

Near the grandstands, you still look to be 

Definitely in it for the long run, so why

Are you always so

 

Short of breath? 

 

 

 

 

Pied Peter Piper's Dark Buffalo Ditty

My boy, keep this 

In mind 

 

No matter where 

You might go or do, 

 

You’re more than likely 

To meet more 

 

Than your share of stark 

Blank stares waiting 

 

In line expressly for you— 

For Pete’s sake, 

 

Whatever you do, if 

And when you happen 

 

To see the dullish whites 

Of their eyes, forget the ears 

 

And aim right for their hearts, 

Keeping in mind what 

 

I taught you—always 

Use plenty 

 

Of live lovely ammo, too.

 

Disambiguating Alarming Thought

Louse, 

At the first hint 

Of one 

 

More stinking, bare- 

Faced lie, here it comes 

And what a sight— 

 

Such stuff of a pure 

Blackguard cur frothing 

At the mouth that keeps 

 

Your false teeth oh so truly 

Flashing pearly white! 

 

 

 

 

To Dream, Perchance To Sleep

Lest you can’t 

Write anything 

 

That comes to 

Mind first thing 

 

You wake up 

In the morning,

 

No use going back 

To sleep—it’s past 

 

Time to dream 

You did. 

 

 

 

 

 

You Were Saying, Sage?

As for poetry, 

Nothing is ever 

 

Finished, not 

Even the thought 

 

Of it disappearing— 

All for naught.

 

Murky Waters

It looks to be 

Another long, hot, dry summer— 

 

Eyeless in dank wells, even 

The eels seem reluctant 

 

To sweat it out.

 

 

 

Stetson, Il Miglior Fabricator

Easy does it, 

My discerning amigo— 

Don’t you dare think that 

 

Once you get the hang of it, 

You’re free to stick another feather 

In your hat and straightaway

 

Hang it up—methinks you must 

First learn the difference between 

A fedora and a terza rima, 

 

What make you of that?

 

Unsaid And Straight To The Heart Of The Matter

Yes, by all means 

This time do set it down 

Right, reticent one, clearly 

And cleanly as possible, all the way 

To its worm-eaten core—

 

And listen up good—

Leave no loose ends dangling, 

Like those that devilish 

Wriggler left so you could 

Choke on them in its absence;

 

That said, what are you waiting for? 

Eat your heart out, full 

Speed ahead—we’re dying 

Here to watch you do it right 

This time around, 

 

Nuff said?

 

To A "T"

There was nothing 

He couldn’t do,

 

And he did it so well

He never had to try.