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Saturday, June 1, 2013

Pâté with Chanterelles


A caterpillar singing Dylan,
   to his lovely little daughter,
Met a Butterfly that was chillin',
   in a pool of Muddy Water.

A caterpillar took his rest, in a chilling mystery thriller,
   Met a sudden bookish death, by a serial butterfly killer.

A caterpillar sadly sitting,
   through a chilling mystery thriller,
Had her body badly bitten,
   by a serial butterfly killer.

When a caterpillar stewed, "I'll never get fine clothes."
   A butterfly bought him a suit, "For my caterpillar bro!"

A Butterfly played a clever Metaphor,
   His poetry got engraved, on a Caterpillar's door.

A tiny Butterfly sang a killer metaphor,
   The poetry he sang, hung on a Caterpillar's door.

A Caterpillar climbed, to a Butterfly's front door,
   So poetry grows sublime, on the shores of Metaphor.

Scanty and bare, what don't we like?
   Bra and panties, take a hike.

I heard a call, and wrote this ditty,
   Knowing well that graffiti's seedy.
Made it rhyme, and got it punning,
   arranged in time, and made it funny.

Au Frontenac à Montréal
I bought pâté with chanterelles.
I sought my queen in the rez-de-chaussée,
Après j'ai pris, un petit café.

Raymond Catalan wouldn't fit,
   Not in our car, nor the back of it!

I knew a poet, whom little was lost-on,
   He didn't know it but his name was Drew Boston.

The mortgage mess is a full-scale eruption,
Sordid bets, with bales of corruption.

Professor Newt once took a sack,
. . .  of government loot, from Freddie Mac.

These bankers whine, but act so noble,
     like John Corzine of MF Global.
He's got some gold in his knapsack,
     since he sold his stock of Goldman Sachs.

Republican candidates have Alzheimer's bad.
Can't remember dates, or who is whose Dad.

No sane reason to speculate,
 . . . that ancient treason was Hecate bait.
A Turkish dish writ on Grecian lace,
 . . . sent a kiss from Samothrace.

Milky silk and silken skin,
Beneath her kilt, I looked right in!

Permission requested to write some poems,
that won't be found in a reputable tome.
They might be struck down, but once on the town,
their mission's to romp as they roam.

I beseech you, are these leechees?
Or Leeches with Beach leaves?
Eyeballs for my highball?

Irene brought doom, duress and bleeding,
Her cost entombs success that's fleeting.

Money prowls through indebted streets,
Something growls, but nothing to eat.

Greedy feeding at the trough,
weeping wives and lovers lost,
Brooks and Murdoch not enough,
to pay busted lies, and karma tossed.

The brute refuted a working gal's rage,
But information she looted put DSK in a cage.

What feat or race of mortal men,
Could face or beat an Andromedan?

What fruits of bankruptcy corrupted the feast;
The boots of Italy, that stepped on Greece!

Get lost Silvio! Call and ring him!
Tell the truth he has no lingham.
Imperial love at last has soured,
On Berlusconi, master coward.

Papandreou withstood populous rage.
Hard to do, it takes courage.
But Berlusconi, across the sea,
Won't resign, until forced to flee.

Rupert M is on his knees,
   before Her Majesty the Queen,
The travesty now is what he's blown,
   and all the TV she's seeing!

Don't buy those bonds don't be such saps!
No putting off a financial collapse.

Who caused it all? I'm not talking,
But it isn't the fault of the subprime Balkans.

Papandreou the Fearless lives to fight,
An honest PM from a Greece in plight.

Berlusconi scorned the fuss,
Dines alone on Italian puss.

Berlusconi won't take aid,
From the one and only IMF maid.
If she were younger he might have asked,
For bunga-bunga, those times are past.

Greek bonds are weak,
German banks are wormy,
Thank the French, the stench is germy,
Italian paper's coming down,
A fire-sale in your home town.

The Mantis Male



After great Sir Walter got beheaded
They ate his daughter's brain, not breaded.

Such was life in this brave New World,
Where to survive, colonists ate young girls.

Get out your tomatoes and forget that tornado,
I'll massage your labido 'til it feels like Play Dough!

A torrent began of pagan words,
So a poem came and torched my earth.

I'm letting go of old tea-bowls,
Watching them flow to dear old souls.

I left, all packed, in a rental car,
But won't be back 'til I travel far.

Tantric experiments in symmetry,
Time got folded, literally.

The circles I travel in are like fabric unravelling.

When your lot in life is a salary,
You put salt in the pot from a company.

A train so needs a load of coal, yeah,
A shame no weed for old soul yoga!

One Bufo marinus, got to know Jesus,
Amplexed before sex, on females he seize-ed.
Bufo this Cane Toad, fast-tracked to Australia,
He aspired to sainthood, on the backs of femalia.

I once knew a pimp, a Mantis Shrimp,
Colorful, but decidedly fierce.
He met a sea-horse, a metaphor of course,
For his lover who liked to get pierced.

One Pimp who knows nature's carnality,
Is the Mantis Shrimp, he blows with finality.

The recessive painter colors for who?
An incessant prayer that's greater than you.

The Fed has set its oatmeal to bubble,
Face well away, or else there'll be trouble.

Sympathy for old friends, with coins on Mt. Gox,
Gold makes no amends, they've both got the pox.

Booked to stoke wood, from midnight to dawn.
Look into the kiln, third eyelid withdrawn.

All your guts know rot is balmy,
Roots grow back a thought that's calming,

A progressive writer, tools wit in a blog.
The aggressive fighter, duels with fog.

The rogue-est of states is run by a young-un,
The lowest-est of fates is fun for Kim Jong Un.

Many say love's an emotion,
Others say love's in the head.
Some complain love's a commotion,
And maintain it should stay in your bed.

As a Mantis Male,
 . . . I have a fantasy,
It's to grab your Mantis tail
 . . . and then to bed with Thee!
But as a Mantis Man,
 . . . I know reality,
You plan to eat my head instead,
 . . . the moment I bed with Thee!

Whatever you want to make,
 . . . is what you'll eventually be.
However many mistakes it takes,
 . . . shouldn't matter a whit to thee!

To my Mantis-wife,
I’ll dish my fantasy,
I’ll pray and wish my Damnedest-life
That you never prey on me!

If a Mantis-thee, is my fantasy,
I wish you'd grant us, prey on me!

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