Poetics and Ruminations

MISS PUSSYCAT'S PARLOR SONGS, PART TWO: INAUGURATION SPECIAL

 

 

 PART TWO

 

Meow, meow, meow,

Whose puss art thou?

Not Donny Trump's puss,

Not ever and not now.

 

 

Trump is but a braggart baboon

Who tootles a bad jazz bassoon.

       The end of this story: 

       He'll go on to glory

Playing jazz in a hot air balloon.

 

If Donald could write poultry too

(In a Poulter's measure or two),

       Then he might invent 

       Rhymes with a scent

Quite nasty, as I like to do.

 

 

Twitter, twitter, twitter,

Trump needs a pussy sitter --

Twitter. twitter, tweet,

He thinks that would be sweet.

 

Flitter, flitter, prance,

Oh! How he loves a dance,

Flitter, flitter, flap,

If pussy's on his lap.

 

 

Humpty Trumpty sat on his wall.

Humpty Trumpty had a great fall.

All Congress' whores and all congressmen

Couldn't put Humpty together again

Although they tried with main and with might,

And every one of them was white.

 

 

Bye, Donny Trumpkin,

Daddy's gone a-huntin'

To get a little snake skin

To wrap the Donny Trumpkin in.

 

 

Cock-a-doodle-doo!

Poor Trumpkin has no clue:

He's lost his flabby fiddlestick

And can't tell what to do.

 

Cock-a-doodle-doo!

Niagara Falls are blue,

A lot like his Viagra pills,

Which serve him tried and true.

 

Cock-a-doodle-doo!

What is poor Don to do?

To find his sorry fiddlestick

He'll need Cialis too.

 

Cock-a-doodle-doo!

His dame has donned her shoe,

And he has found his fiddlestick,

Sing doodle-doodle-doo!

 

Cock-a-doodle-doo!

His dame will dance with you

While Donald fiddles with his stick

And makes it stand anew!

 

 

Remember old King Nero

Who worshipped Great God Zero?

Trump worships Zeros too -- 

He's collected quite a few.

He and his pussy minions

Like millions, but love billions

And are heading for sextillions.

 

 

If he could have, Dryden (1631-1700)

Would have gone into Haydn (1732-1809),

But Trump

Prefers the dump.

 

 

I love lots of pussy,

It makes me feel warm.

If I buy them diamonds

They'll do me no harm;

I'll just pat their tails,

Make sure they're not gay

Or cross-dressing males,

And then we can play.

They'll dance in my lap,

I'll feed them some food --

Good pecker, not pap --

Be maybe less rude.

I'll pat my sweet pussies,

And then they will purr,

Each showing thanks

For my kindness to her;

I'll not bite their knobs,

Nor tread on their paws

Lest I should provoke them

To use their sharp claws;

I'm sure that my pussies

Will not be displeased --

I will over-sex them

If they're not diseased.

 

 

Grump grump Donald Trump,

How I wonder why you pump

In the cellar with your sump

That sounds a lot like Forrest Gump.

 

 

Rub-a-dub-dub

Three Trumps in a tub,

And who do you think they be?

The Trumpet, the Strumpet, the lass who can hump it --

Waterboard them, all three!

 

 

Donny Douchekit's gone to sea, 

Silver buckles at his knee.

He'll come back and pee on me,

Pretty Donny Douchekit.

 

 

Hickory, dockery, dick,

Donnybrook tripped on his prick --

     He fell on his fly,

     And put out his eye --

Now, how did he pull off that trick?

 

 

KING TRUMPKIN'S WALL

 

Little King Trumpkin will build a fine wall,

The Mexican people will pay for it all.

The pales will be made of nothing but words,

The crossbars and slats, of batshit and turds.

 

"No, senor, no -- you pay for your fence

All by yourself, you spend your own Pence

Or pesos or euros...it's all your expense

And none of our own -- that's mucho nonsense.

People go over, go through, go around,

The cartels build highways deep underground.

The Great Wall of China was built to keep out

The nomads and Mongols -- you see them around

In Bejing and Hong Kong; they can be found

Everywhere these days, just like Hispanics

Who give Kinglet Trumpkin his asthma and panics.

So, no, senor, no -- you pay for your wall.

We Mexicans will not repay you at all."

 

Miss Pussy's Parlor Songs, Part One

Claudette McFang

 

MISS PUSSY'S PARLOR SONGS

Trumpty Dumpty sat on his wall.
Trumpty Dumpty had a great fall.
He climbed up his wall and fell down again
And again, and again, and again, and again.

Wee Donald Trumpkin runs through the town,


Peeing on the hookers in his nightgown,


Peering through the windows, crying through the locks,


"Are the johns all in their beds and turning on their cocks?"

I had a little nut tree --
Nothing would it bear
But a Donald Trumpkin
And some pubic hair.

The President of Russia
Hacked Hillary and me,
And all for the sake
Of my little nut tree.

Bumpity, bumpity, bump,
My name is Twittery Trump,
I eat out of pans and old tin cans
Because my mind is a dump, a dump,
Because my mind is a dump.

Bah! Bah! Donald,
   Have you any hair?
"Yes sir, yes sir --
   You had best beware,
For I have no master:
   I will maul any dame,
Because the mighty lion
   Has an orange mane."

An owl flew onto Donald's hair.
It bent and pecked his pate's scalp bare
So it would have space for a turd --
I wish I were that wise old bird.

Donald had a little ram,
It's fleece was black as ink,
And everywhere that Donald went
The ram was sure to slink.

It followed him to work one day
And caught Monica's scent.
From that point on that is the room
Where all their time was spent

Wutchugonnado

 

WUTCHUGONNADO

A fable of the noble savage

Listen to Lewis Turco read his poem "Wutchugonnado"

 

Wutchugonnado by the brookside,

Squaw at his side,

Crow caw overhead,

Speckled fish on the speckled riverbed,

Sat in the painted sun,

Thoughts on Wutsicumminto,

Wutsicumminto, his son.

 

Dappled ripples lap-lapped

At the mottled clay bank,

Shadows sank floating logs;

Thoughts were driftwood,

Little good;

Thoughts were braveness muscled in

Bronze skin;

Thoughts were stone-tipped,

Ice-nipped,                                                   

Birch-bark wilderness;

Thoughts were crushed dreams,

Dead schemes, sere themes

In the painted sun.

 

Wutchugonnado dreamt of

Savage hunt love,

Land of moccasin's pad-pad

On the forest trail;

Dreamt of clear eye,

Night cry,

Glowing-coal smoke, starlit night cloak,

Solemn peace pipe, flame on cheek bones —

Dreamt of these and many more things:

 

Of his offspring Wutsicumminto,

Of his son, his warrior son,

Bronzed and free

In the white man's factory.

 

From The Collected Lyrics of Lewis Turco / Wesli Court 1953-2004, Scottsdale, AZ: www.StarCloudPress.com, 2004, 460 pp., ISBN 1-932842-00-4, jacketed cloth; ISBN 1-932842-01-2, trade paperback. Also available from Amazon.com in a Kindle edition.

The View from a Tower Window

 

 

I am standing in the window of the tower at an artist’s colony in upstate New York, and I am looking down at the fountain behind the mansion because I can think of nothing to write today. That’s why I’m here, I’m supposed to be writing.

The man is walking toward the fountain, and the sky is blue. He stops at the wall and looks at the sculpture of two nude nymphs and a satyr that lies against the woods under the mountain.

       In his pressed white jacket the man leaves the fountain, and the sky is still blue. The man stops beneath me on the lawn. He is waiting. The wall stops as well and surrounds the white sculpture of two nude nymphs and the satyr who lie beside the woods under the mountain. In the other rooms of the mansion people are writing things, and in the studios on the grounds artists are painting and sculptors are sculpting.

       No one is left to look at the fountain, and the sky is less blue. One nymph stands and yawns in the white sculpture of two nudes and a smiling satyr lying beside the woods under the mountain. The first nymph stretches her arms above the fountain, and now the sky is clouding. The other trails her fingers in the green hue of the pool where the nymphs and satyr lie beside the woods beneath the mountain.

       Above, I stand in the tower window watching. I should be sitting before my laptop tapping on the keys, listening to the patter of words falling onto the virtual page, but the mist of the water in the fountain is a curtain, and the sky is clouding.

       The man in the jacket returns to the sculpture where the two nude nymphs and the satyr lie still beside the woods beneath the mountain. The mist of the water is a curtain, and the sky is cloudy. Now a girl trails her fingers in the aquamarine of the pool where the nymphs and the satyr lie beside the woods by the still mountain, where the man stands looking at the sculpture and at the girl as I stand watching rather than writing in the tower window.

Italian Americana Review of THE HERO ENKIDU

The Hero Enkidu: An Epic by Lewis Turco, New York: Bordighera Press (www.BordigheraPress.org ), VIA Folios 107, 2015, 101 pp. ISBN 978-1-59954-098-6, trade paperback.

Zombie, from A BOOK OF BEASTS

 

THROWBACK THURSDAY

 

 

 Image by Louise Dickinson-Brown

 

ZOMBIE

 By Lewis Turco

 

Outside the door, the noises of the sleugh.

indoors, the tropic heat, the potted ferns,

a palm stuck in the corner near the couch.

She waits and picks at lint. Her fingers run

through her hair. "It's nerves, just nerves," she says,

but still she listens.

                               And then the sudden knock.

The potted palm sweats. Its leaves ripple.

She cannot speak. Then — "Yes, who is it?" She

gets up and smooths her skirt. Another knock.

She goes toward the door. The mirror there

beside the clock shows her what she must see:

a plain young woman with faded eyes, her hair

a neutral shade. "What does he want with me?"

she tells the glass.

                              "Who's there?" she asks again.

"I've come," he says. She reaches for the knob.

Her palms are sweating: they slip as her fingers turn.

She pauses — pulls.

                                 He stands there on the stoop,

his eyes too bright and blank. His puffy skin

is white as mallow in the dimming light.

He has no hair. His body is too stiff.

His mouth gapes as he looks at her. She starts,

 

but catches herself. His hat is in one hand;

the other goes to his tie. He clears his throat.

"We'd better hurry," she says, "or we'll be late."

She turns off the light, picks up her coat, her purse,

and moves toward the door. He stands aside,

closes the door, and follows her into the night.

 

     From an unpublished manuscript, A Book of Beasts, poems by Lewis Turco, illustrations by Louise Dickinson-Brown; the poems may be found in Fearful Pleasures: The Complete Poems of Lewis Turco 1959-2007, Scottsdale, AZ: www.StarCloudPress.com, 2007. ISBN 978-1-932842-19-7, cloth; ISBN 978-1-932842-20-3, paper. Also available in a Kindle edition.

Yeti, from A BOOK OF BEASTS

 

THROWBACK THURSDAY

 

 

 

Image by Louise Dickinson-Brown

 

YETI

 By Lewis Turco

 

We do not know whether the tales are true

nor, if they are, why he will not come down

out of the high slopes and the winter peaks

where he has lived, they say, since earth was new.

He is called Eldfather: The name bespeaks

 

ingle and hearth, perhaps, but he disdains

to take such comforts. So, from dawn to dimpse

he ranges his sterilities alone,

casting his shaggy glances to the plains

below the wind, taking nor giving rone.

 

And is he Adam, then, as some assume,

or Abel's line at least, rejecting Cain

with all his artifacts — the roaky skies

choking the murderous cities' palling doom

and piling scroil? Does he recall the lies

 

an uncle told, therefore seek out the screeve

of cloud along a ridge? It may be so.

And it may also be he is the beast

of solitude — merely that. Let him grieve

or joy and wander, coldly fast or feast

 

where blizzards rail and the planets hover.

Our crops are sown in blood upon the nover.

 

     From an unpublished manuscript, A Book of Beasts, poems by Lewis Turco, illustrations by Louise Dickinson-Brown; the poems may be found in Fearful Pleasures: The Complete Poems of Lewis Turco 1959-2007, Scottsdale, AZ: www.StarCloudPress.com, 2007. ISBN 978-1-932842-19-7, cloth; ISBN 978-1-932842-20-3, paper. Also available in a Kindle edition.

Xoanon, from A BOOK OF BEASTS

 

THROWBACK THURSDAY

 

 

 

Image by Louise Dickinson-Brown

 

XOANON

 

By Lewis Turco

 

         Its body is like that

   of a buffalo, black and thick.

         It is lugsome as mud.

It depresses me to think of it,

     lying there in the corner

under a table of my study.

 

         It is best that I not

   look at it, though its eyes are closed.

         I have fed it a root

of nightshade, and it is sleeping. It

     will not cast me one of its

killing glances for a while. It is

 

         content in its despair.

   Its dreams fill that boarskull and spill

         out of the bristles, rank

as gorge, into lamplight. I try not

     to watch these visions in shades

of pallor and nocolor. Its neck

 

         querls about its body,

   translucent as intestine. In

it, slowly spiraling,the night

shade darkens and dissolves. If

     I rise, it will rise as well.

Its lids will open to slits, its neck

 

         uncoil; it will lumber

   after me, nearly stepping on

its chin, for I have tamed

Xoanon. I stop and stare it down.

     It moans, heaves beneath my bed

to watch me dream of it. The beast knows

 

         its master, knows that I

   will not think of it if I will,

that I can strike to its

heart with a look. And Xoanon knows

     as well parasite from host,

knows who shall cast the last glance at last —

 

   who is the master's bete noir.

 

     From an unpublished manuscript, A Book of Beasts, poems by Lewis Turco, illustrations by Louise Dickinson-Brown; the poems may be found in Fearful Pleasures: The Complete Poems of Lewis Turco 1959-2007, Scottsdale, AZ: www.StarCloudPress.com, 2007. ISBN 978-1-932842-19-7, cloth; ISBN 978-1-932842-20-3, paper. Also available in a Kindle edition.

Vielfras, from A BOOK OF BEASTS

 

THROWBACK THURSDAY

 

 

 

Image by Louise Dickinson-Brown

VIELFRAS

 

By Lewis Turco

 

     He inhabits a precious pelt,

dogsize, but a hunger greater than he

   inhabits him. He is the gorger

     Vielfras, habitant of scrog

 

     and underbrush. All creatures grand

and minuscule are his prey. Upon his

   thick legs the long body moves, silent

     as snow, until his bright teeth close

 

     and rend. He will devour the roe,

the boar, the ox — anything greater than

   himself, his sac of fur swelling till

     it strains to split. Then, he will seek

 

     two close-standing saplings and squeeze

between them, head first, disburdening his

   swollen bowels of their freight. If he

         is captured somehow — stunned, perhaps,

 

     by blunt arrows so as not to

damage his variegated fur — when

   he wakes in a pit, he will attack

         mortar and stone, eat his way out,

 

and noggle awkwardly into

   the winter air toward his trees. If he

is chased, the hunter behind will be

   pelted with half-digested rock.

 

   The flesh of Vielfras, they say,

tastes like hunger. It will grow in the paunch,

   and he who wears a coat of its skin

     may never remove it again.

 

     From an unpublished manuscript, A Book of Beasts, poems by Lewis Turco, illustrations by Louise Dickinson-Brown; the poems may be found in Fearful Pleasures: The Complete Poems of Lewis Turco 1959-2007, Scottsdale, AZ: www.StarCloudPress.com, 2007. ISBN 978-1-932842-19-7, cloth; ISBN 978-1-932842-20-3, paper. Also available in a Kindle edition.

Related articles

The God of Melancholy: A Religious Treatise

Uroboros, from A BOOK OF BEASTS

 

THROWBACK THURSDAY

 

 

Image by Louise Dickinson-Brown

 

UROBOROS

By Lewis Turco

 

     Some call him Uroboros:

   "That-Which-Is-Its-Own-Sustenance."

He is the chemist's worm, things in a circle,

     air and fire, water, earth,

   a mouth of darkness devouring

 

     its own bright tail. Sarsens for

   his spine, scales of blue stones, he wheels

upon himself, and nothing is consumed. All

     wisdom and all matter: These

   are his. We may transmogrify

 

     his image in the dark glass

   of our minds — he may become the

worm in Eve's fruit, asp at the breast, Wyvern in

     the tower hissing out

   of Merlin's spell; nevertheless, he

 

     is the Hermetic dragon

   Uroboros: All things in one.

One may not transmute his elements unless

     he dies. Where shall one bleed him?

   How can we sever everness?

 

He is the Worm Who Lives,

   each thing and All: Water of life,

torment's fire, wind-breath, stone and soil from which these

     green things spring. Uroboros.

   Look inward where he coils in blood.

 

     From an unpublished manuscript, A Book of Beasts, poems by Lewis Turco, illustrations by Louise Dickinson-Brown; the poems may be found in Fearful Pleasures: The Complete Poems of Lewis Turco 1959-2007, Scottsdale, AZ: www.StarCloudPress.com, 2007. ISBN 978-1-932842-19-7, cloth; ISBN 978-1-932842-20-3, paper. Also available in a Kindle edition.

Related articles

DataFox Digest - Friday, December 11, 2015

Nutra Pharma Corp. (NPHC) CEO Featured in Exclusive QualityStocks Interview

Information Security Events For December

Tallwave : Shows Record Growth and Portfolio Success in 2015

Elkhorn S&P 500 Capital Expenditures Portfolio (CAPX) Receives William F. Sharpe Achievement Award for ETF Innovation of the Year

Events for the week of Dec 6-12, 2015

Chip Shot: Intel Security Recognized at Insight Partner Forum