Origami #poetry
Origamis fall apart.
The center does not fold.
–Pleats
Lost Works of Dr. Seuss – Excerpt
Lost works of Dr. Seuss have been popping up madly. I searched my attic and found one about neighbors acting badly. I don’t own the rights so I won’t be a millionaire. But on my blog under “fair use” claims I figured I would share.
Enjoy.
The Butthole Battle Book – Death to a Neighbor
Here’s a little story about a creature I abhor
A freak of nature who’s my closest neighbor
Irish Folk Song
Peggy was shy and so was I
She held me hand by the old pig-sty
Mother Piggy crooned a lullaby
When Peggy held me hand by the old pig-sty
Peggy said she loved her own god
I shot her in the head and left her in the sod
Be she sweet or be she shy
Disrespect me God and she’ll have to die
Señor Tapatío #poetry
Señor Tapatío rode into the town
Suit coat golden as the hills
And sombrero mostly brown
His crimson tie waved gayly in the wind
That’s basically everything
There ever was to know about him
“Isn’t it ironic,” he yelled, “that chilies are hot?” He roared with laughter. “Get it? Chilly? Hot?”
Then as quickly as he arrived he spurred his steed and disappeared into the sunset.
Conflict of Interest disclaimer: No pecuniary or sauce-based compensation was provided in consideration of this post. Not even a lousy 5-ounce bottle. -Ed.
Poetry Slum Contest: Win a Green Day CD!
Shenanigans. This is what you covet.
Diane, I’m holding in my hand a small box of chocolate bunnies used Green Day Shenanigans CD (circa 2002). This is Green Day before the era of American Idiot and 21st Century Breakdown. Early post-modern Green Day. Cubism. This is Green Day in the raw.
And I’m giving it away. For free. It’s contest time in the Abyss once again, although this one is a bit more real than most.
Introducing our first ever Poetry Slam Slum Contest!
So there I was at the trendy #PDX music store and I saw a Green Day CD. Was it already in my collection? Dammit. I couldn’t remember! Thinking I had possibly scored gold, I bought the thing and brought it home.
Curses!
My self-induced misfortune is your gain. You could win this thing!
Rules:
Use the comment section below. Slum some of your original work into the space I’ve thoughtfully provided. It must be “poetry” of some sort. It can rhyme. It can be freeform. It can be a haiku. It can be a sonnet, a bonnet or a ballad. Hell, I’ll even accept limericks if that’s all you got. Wimp.
Anything poetic goes. If you have a poetic license this is the time to take it out for a spin. Shenanigans are on the line!
You must be 18 or older to play. No purchase necessary. I am the Poetry Slum commissioner and my decisions are final. Winner will be determined by any means necessary up to and including Ouija Board. Open to persons in the United States only. Winner must provide a valid shipping address or no CD. The prize is a real physical object that takes up space in the universe and I want it gone. I reserve the right to make up more rules as I see fit.
Entries must be timestamped on this blog before September 1, 2014.
Wax on!
Bones
Have you ever been crushed
Under the weight of your own bones
Like being trapped in a restaurant
Where there are too many phones
Living in a society with more
Information than has ever been known
Where every single person is lost
–Loosely paraphrased and based on lyrics by Rob Wynia
Guest Post: Big Five Oh
I recently celebrated suffered through a so-called milestone birthday. There was, of course, the obligatory birthday card with all the standard jokes about walkers, eyesight, driving, Geritol and Viagra, as required by law in all states (except Florida). As I desperately scrabbled at the card searching for currency a poem fell to the floor. (See below.) I threw out my back bending over to pick it up.
On the plus side, my wife took me to a strip club. Whoa! She cleverly got me wasted on tequila shots and pints of beer before revealing the destination so I wouldn’t enjoy and/or remember the experience. Still, it was quite a surprise and she treated me to the first “lap dance” of my entire life (I don’t get out much) which consisted of three-minutes of quasi-hugging a naked woman in a semi-private room for $40. (Which, by the way, came out of my wallet.)
Although drunk, I still possessed my math wits. I pulled my iPad out of my pants and used it to calculate the hourly rate of “lap dance” at $800 per hour. That is so not worth it.
To add insult to injury the stripper adult entertainment professional was way more into my wife than she was with me. Downright handsy if you know what I mean. That hurt. There’s nothing quite like a birthday to reinforce your position on the food chain.
She says I can have my next lap dance in another 50 years.
Happy birthday to me!
Ode to My Husband
by Mrs. Abyss
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