Logorrhea

Even the best poets write too much—

They can't help themselves. Then,

Somehow, their poems may get published.

Reading them there, they blush inwardly:

As Dr Johnson said of Milton's Paradise Lost:

“None ever wished it longer than it is.”

Who wants a prequel to Goethe's Faustus

Or desires a sequel toThe Waste Land?

Perhaps it was to stem the inexhaustible flow of his Dream Songs

That John Berryman jumped off that bridge.

Emily Dickinson was the wise one,

Who wrote her lines on scraps of paper

And stuck them in her bedside drawer.

I'm no beau of Amherst Street, but

I'm as fortunate. No one will publish me!

Writing my verses on my phone, I release them

Into the uncharted wilderness of the Internet

And watch them race off into the darkening jungle, whispering:

“¡Adiós! Go with God! Goodbye!”

There’s nothing like obscurity to help a poem fly!

The Passionate Billionaire to His Love

Apologies to What’s-His-Face . . . Kit ?? Marlowe ??

Come home with me and be my trophy wife

and we will see those pleasures leap to life:

Silicon Valley’s, Bohemian Grove’s—

and dives' that offer crazy hi-tech loves.

I have more shirts than you can shake a stick

at—my world extends beyond a cringy

fuck! My prick is flaccid, but my purse’s thick!

My love life, Love, is love as love should be!

Do you have a name? Can I call you mine?

Perhaps you’d like another glass of wine?

No? I’ll see you, maybe, some other time.

Really, I mean it! That’d be just fine!

See, here, Philomela, toying with my dick

—it’s just the thing for pleasure after school!

(Why should it be, though, that I’m feeling sick,

not thinking of the future as a rule‽)

 No, this wasn’t just a patriarchal trick—

You say that I don’t love you! Oh, alright!

You better go before we have a fight.

(I think that I might kill myself tonight!)

Her Reply

(Written by Sir S—— F—)

If global warming weren’t a thing

and the bees were still there to sting,

I’d live with you and be your bitch.

At very least we'd be quite rich!

But, alack, the hour is late

and Armageddon’s at the gate.

Besides, you’re cast in Epstein’s mold

—and, what’s more, you’re rather old.

(I fear, too, I might be a dike.

Girls are so cute! What’s not to like?)

When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,

Philomela mightn't be so bold,

But for now, you ugly fuck,

You can keep your precious muck.

Wednesday, January 14, 2026

Interrobangs ‽

How handy are interrobangs,

Which query and surprise,

Ideal punctuation marks for stuff that stuns the eyes!

What fitter means to pause the world,

Or just to criticize?

‽‽