1)
No English writing poets read
In America where their books
Do not sell and we, half-breeds
Each and all, do not see
The subtlety involved in rhyming
Sorry with lorry
Or hoover
Or mincemeat pie
Unless the children are specifically
Told which side of the street
To not play in unless a trampling
Is what
They’re after all not the urchins
Of Dickens stingingly
Slow on the roundabout.
‘Dover, my ass, she said,
I’ll not. I knew
What she meant was
Ask again
But edible eel aren’t your
Cup of tea any more than
Mine when the glaciers melt
It’ll not much matter a whit
What the lads of Shropshire
Did not wear on their cherry-picking
Expeditions or under which block
In which decrepit cathedral
With Which Profound
Ly unintelligible Latin epitaph
So and so is buried
Next to you know
Who was his mistress.
2)
Comforting that our half breed dead
don’t know enough unintelligible Latin
to attempt profundity or coherence
and that most of our half dead breed
couldn’t keep a secret
mistress if they tried so there
they are, the eel and the pie,
separated by maggots, larva,
loons and shit
and a grand indifference
on the part of the populace
available to their apologias
and apostrophes masquerading
as similes or love letters
or enflamed crushed concentrating
on the blouse of the girl
with the thing for Auden
and the wholesome disdain
of all things professorial
and creepy. She’s no Leda,
you are no swan, and six
of one still doesn’t equal a half
dozen of the other
maybe
in a
baker’s dozen or a
prisoner’s dilemma.
To Counting!
To the Broken Roundabout!
To Untasted Shepherd’s Pie!
To the Amorous Swan!
To Dover!
To You, Ben Dover!
To the Cracking of the Dawn!
I’ve no idea if
Fee Fie Foe Fum is Latin
or Bada-Bing! Italian.
To Apologias!
To Remaindering!
To Apostrophes!
To Making Sense of It All!
3)
A lad named Kenneth fell
Off the circlegoround breaking
His arm in two places but saving
Him from the dank broken clutches
Of the traffic
The cherry picking expedition
The ill-besotten life
Of the dourly stern scribe
Headed for extinction
With a no dover wife
And a flap with a shelf life
Of three months
To Accounting!
To Fiduciary Annotation!
To Fees, to Fie, to Fum!
Fum! Fum!
© 2012 – Mark A. Douglas – All Right
Reserved
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