Flashy Poem Monster

Monstrous Mental Gym Poem: de-monstrate, not tell

I have been reading lists of clichés;

listening to talks about random violence-or-not at chuckycheezes

spoiler: it’s usually a domestic affair


weapons of mass destruction


small-step braveries

shooting of mentally ill patients in hospital beds

snatches of gravity’s rainbow

and long re-reads of tortuous tales

It made the time on the treadmill go by somewhat faster

even without stem-cell time crystals

Touché cliché has a bonjour tristesse ring to it, no?


like sweat through a lulu leotard

demon straight

demon’s traits

– I am trying to think of a monster-

in 1500 words


The monstro-of-consciousness

morphs and changes.

Now cooing sweet nothings,

then tearing self-esteem apart-

It throttles the black dog;

tickles the tummy full of cherry pie-

whispers, cajoles, shouts;

pulls at bruised toe-nails.

It pinches off yeasty-dough pizza thought bubbles

and spins and flattens and tosses them.

Some plop down like toe-biter offspring;

take root, potato-eyed spud roots

with leaves and shoots and spider hair.

Others crawl away, skinless, raw, unlit:

shoestring allumette fries.

The stem cell time crystals voice their opinion:

They protest too much, methinks.

Vulture paté, it’s a thing:

They came for its liver, every day

and it grew back by night.

Now, they sit, own talons nailed to a plank; force-fed themselves.

It’s a delicacy, you see.

The post-prandial pancreatic pleasure

of Deliverance

de mon traitor

Ma man,

the good father

That is, the water bug dad:

not a monster, you say.

When you tear the legs off a sea star,

you can grow five new ones.

Twenty-five torn off could soon add up.

High five, oleaginous prince,

you get a five star review!

We’re going on a monster hunt

Mon stêr

Mon star

My stare

I see you now:

You are a true monster,

my monster.

The woke monster

The delicious monster, caught by its tail

of twenty-now’s.

Descend the stairway to hell on tippy-toes.


(Not halitosis)

tie; grrr

Sorry, Pops, what did you say?

Pop star?

Pop tart?

No: just toast

How can toast be just?

A toast to justness then!

It’s just a lemma after all.

A choice between the high road and the low one:

bract or chaff.

The grass roots of a double-take.

But don’t panicle;

there’s no stigma attached to this ovary,

the anthers in fact a filament of your imagination.

Don’t unsheathe the blade

of ridicule so readily.

True post-modern poetry

is hard to conceive

And readily aborted

No mint will sweeten that breath:

vulture vomit is an involuntary evolutionary un-evil defence mechanism.

You know that.

A sticky wicket, when your software won’t update

Even with the license key

It leaves one vulnerable

to all kinds of unholy trolls

Raging at the fall of the good knight.

Do not go gently.


Fight that good fight.

Into the night rode the five hundred

their duty done

Screw the one thousand;

we do this for fun

So: nine more words:

it should have been none.

Now: the other thousand words will have to be a picture, because I’m out of time and talent. Hey, it’s pi day today.








(Emily Dickinson, via Biblioklept)

Emily Dickinson Poems Book Cover
Emily Dickinson Poems Book Cover (Photo credit: Wikipedia)



Susurrus (SussieRus)

Let the mindpebbles mollyslip

on the smooth sand


do not probe

do not stab at the shark pups through the bars


do not step harshly on the

coral fingers of the skull cave


softly softly catch the sea monkey


don’t go diving in that submarine

its 533 gauge torpedo tubes

have little tolerance

for the clownfish

of inquiry


slide smooth along the seabed’s undulations

embrace the susurrus

of silence

Un Petit Peu de Pushkin


Apparently, today is Take-your-poet-to-work Day…Well, it would be pretty crowded in the studio then. I have been meaning to read some more Pushkin. I have unfortunately not seen the Eugene Onegin opera, but you can listen to it here! Just as delicious, you can listen to the translated poem here, read by the inimitable Stephen Fry. The poem has been translated by various people, including Vladimir Nabokov and Douglas R. Hofstadter (of Gödel, Escher,Bach).

There is a beautiful ink self-portrait of Pushkin on the Wikipedia site:

English: Russian poet Alexander Pushkin (1799-...
English: Russian poet Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837) Русский: Русский писатель и поэт Пушкин, Александр Сергеевич (1799-1837), Институт русской литературы, Санкт-Петербург (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This poem seemed apt:


Vous me demandez mon portrait,

Mais peint d’après nature :

Mon cher, il sera bientôt fait,

Quoique en miniature.

Je sais un jeune polisson

Encore dans les classes :

Point sot, je le dis sans façon

Et sans fades grimaces.

Onc, il ne fut de babillard,

Ni docteur de Sorbonne

Plus ennuyeux et plus braillard

Que moi-même en personne.

(from Poems by Alexander PushkinAleksandr Sergeevich Pushkin– January 1888, Cupples and Hurd- Publisher on Google Play)


(Another interesting resource I found, as translated by G.R Ledger: Pushkin’s Poems…)



LobTail Regrets

(h/t to Vintage Printable)
(h/t to Vintage Printable)

LobTail Regrets

Since changing into a cat

I cannot read anymore

The world has cats

and dogs

Cats that vomit up hairballs

in slime

Dogs that gobble it up

with glee

I wish there were more whales

that vomited verdigris

Is that green-grey?


(green prom dress made with love

to match my eyes

the wrong green

the wrong green

not chromium oxide green

not sap green

not olive green

the colour of seared leprechaun green)


No, Payne’s grey, verdigris

a mix of fine ash and bees wax

with kernels of golden squid beaks

Those whales, how they

spy-hop and make sweet!

I am hungry for

whale vomit

(via The Uffish Thumb)

Morbid Spiritoïdy

The Vague Curve
The Vague Curve

Today’s poem:

A Ballade of Suicide (G.K. Chesterton)

The gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall;
I tie the noose on in a knowing way
As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours–on the wall–
Are drawing a long breath to shout “Hurray!”
The strangest whim has seized me. . . . After all
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay–
My uncle’s sword is hanging in the hall–
I see a little cloud all pink and grey–
Perhaps the rector’s mother will not call–
I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall
That mushrooms could be cooked another way–
I never read the works of Juvenal
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The world will have another washing-day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H.G. Wells has found that children play,
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall,
Rationalists are growing rational–
And through thick woods one finds a stream astray
So secret that the very sky seems small–
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal,
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;
Even to-day your royal head may fall,
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

Well, okay then, I’ll try a sonnet:

Suicide Sonnet
Suicide Sonnet

(Hat Tip to this Cyanide and Happiness)