What do I care if ‘tis uncool to read The poems of an eighty-year-old poet Whose flower garden some say has gone to seed Ten thousand morns since she beg What do I care if ‘tis uncool to read The poems of an eighty-year-old poet Whose flower garden some say has gone to seed Ten thousand morns since she began to sow it? A woman who is unafraid of forms Haiku ballads villanelles sonnets triolets Knows they fit not today’s poetic norms Yet cultivates them nonetheless like violets I didn’t think I’d have anything in common With an Englishwoman born in nineteen-forty-five But one page in I was just like oh man This Wendy is the greatest poet alive She writes so beautifully and she’s so clever Oh I could go on reading Cope forever!...more
Why do some people hate on feminists? All they want is equal rights Guys they’re not after our penises Nor are they after our jobs an I Married a Feminist
Why do some people hate on feminists? All they want is equal rights Guys they’re not after our penises Nor are they after our jobs and wives
I married a feminist Does that mean I’m a jobless eunuch? Shall I in anger raise my fist And start goose-stepping in Munich?
My dad he never cleaned the home My parents and I lived in His entire generation Was taught that cleaning was for women
Women are half the world’s population Why should we view them as divergent? Does undergoing ovulation Make one an expert in detergent?
And who’s to say what a woman is? There are women without vaginas Like there are men with giant dicks Who yearn to be Lady Godivas
On ne nait pas femme on le devient Wrote Simone de Beauvoir Are not the real deviants Those who don't change their point of voir?
Yes by marrying a feminist I also married her bookshelf Now I could draw up a long list Of reasons why you should yourself...more
What would I do without boring books Books that put me to sleep Wishing I were reading other books More exci Ode to the Importance of Reading Boring Books
What would I do without boring books Books that put me to sleep Wishing I were reading other books More exciting or more deep?
This one by Laure Murat Belongs in the boring-book category It is neither exciting nor very deep And it certainly isn’t gory
It is all about her posh family And its ties with Marcel Proust I think I found what I was looking for In my search for time lost
Yet I am grateful to Laure Murat For wasting my precious time Which otherwise I would have squandered On blasted Instagram
Where even the readers overshare The books that they have read Feeding the algorithm that makes us Scroll until we’re dead
I read Proust Roman Familial On the train to and from Paree My eyelids lead-heavy My vision TV-blurry
But I was happy as I slept A smile on my face For Laure Murat's most boring book Took me back to a human place...more
Whan that I was eighteen I played in a punk band Now I am forty-four A daddy and a husband
O Summer of 98 How I remember thee Sitting in that smelly van In Whan that I was eighteen I played in a punk band Now I am forty-four A daddy and a husband
O Summer of 98 How I remember thee Sitting in that smelly van In the middle of BC
From Vancouver to Winnipeg Stopping in many towns Playing all-ages shows Behaving like teen clowns
Sometimes we played like shit Sometimes our band was super tight Sometimes thinking of our mamas Made us weep at night
Eating Mac and Cheese at a gas station In North Saskatchewan We saw the Northern Lights And felt so woebegone
For this was our first time Completely on our own Travelling the Eastern road That led us far from home
Mostly we slept in tents Or out under the stars Only once we stayed at Shitty’s house Who owned like thirteen scars
We'd met him at a gig He was friends with Mr Plow He grew potatoes in his backyard Had a TV the size of a cow!
All he ever watched was wrestling His house filled with the cries Of glistening men in tights Face paint round their eyes
In downtown Winnipeg we rocked The Royal Albert Hotel While a dead body was found In an upstairs suite—oh well
In Brandon (or was it Moose Jaw?) We played a too-long set The guys who were on after us Were terribly upset
Said they were going to kick The living shit out of us So we loaded double-quick And sped off into the woods
Another night at the Wash & Slosh A bar in Saskatoon Which doubled up as laundry mat And looked like a saloon
Darren from the Francophobes Smashed his own beer glass With a backswing of his guitar But he thought it was some ass-
Hole who’d hurled a beer at him From the dark edge of the stage It took five of us young punks To alleviate his rage
From Calgary to Lethbridge From Regina Town to Banff Five unshaven teenagers Farted in a van (fff)
Me I’d taken for the ride Melville’s Moby Dick Didn't read a chapter Of that monumental brick
So many more adventures Happened on the tour I wouldn’t want to bore you though And keep you up till four...more
There are apples There are pears There are cherries There are melons There are watermelons There are cantaloupes There are apricots There are bananas There ar There are apples There are pears There are cherries There are melons There are watermelons There are cantaloupes There are apricots There are bananas There are strawberries There are raspberries There are blackberries There are blueberries There are gooseberries There are cranberries There are mulberries There are boysenberries There are redcurrants There are black currants There are peaches There are coconuts There are plums There are prunes There are kiwis There are passion fruit There are durian fruit There are pomegranates There are persimmons There are tomatoes There are grapefruits There are grapes There are dates There are figs There are guavas There are mangoes There are pineapples There are lemons There are limes Takes all kinds of fruit to make a garden grow...more
After reading Diane Seuss Of writing poesy what’s the use? Goodness knows I’ve paid my dues At the altars of the muse Words squeezed out of me like juice I After reading Diane Seuss Of writing poesy what’s the use? Goodness knows I’ve paid my dues At the altars of the muse Words squeezed out of me like juice I've produced and I produce More rhyming lines than Pharaoh’s Jews Did contemplate the Red Sea’s hues Versifier on the loose I trump my sixes with my deuce More than once I’ve blown a fuse I think in feet and burn my shoes But when compared with Diane Seuss I feel just like a common goose (Not a bird you'll find in zoos) Honking after Orpheus And though my name is Odysseus I ain’t like her auda-ci-ous She writes poems that make the news I write silly re-verse-views Of her train I’m the caboose —It’s like tryin� to compete with Zeus!...more
Made of sticks and slimy mushrooms I am the teller of this tale I have eyes in many rooms Observing what goes on in there
Look how they occupy themselves T Made of sticks and slimy mushrooms I am the teller of this tale I have eyes in many rooms Observing what goes on in there
Look how they occupy themselves These men who seem to know them all The gilded titles on the shelves That line the study down the hall
Men whose opinions fill like smoke The narrow corners of the mind Who turn woman into a joke Of which they can't recall the punchline
Watch as they remove the layers They have wrapped about their persons And indulge in lonely prayers Released from private prisons
Some will hack and cough all night Toss and turn in narrow beds Others touch themselves and fight The female demons in their heads
They’re all here to find a cure For their infected lungs It has been over a year Since they could sing their bawdy songs
But me and my fellow creatures know That these mountains are but a trap And we stand here in patient snow Like a branch about to snap...more
There’s no need to worry While reading this story That you’ll miss your taxi or train In just sixty pages It won’t take you ages To pack it away in your brain Your brain To pack it away in your brain
Meet Jean Roscoff who’s sixty-five This novel’s anti-hero Author of an essay on The poet Robert Willow
Jean the very definition Of what failure is Divorced Meet Jean Roscoff who’s sixty-five This novel’s anti-hero Author of an essay on The poet Robert Willow
Jean the very definition Of what failure is Divorced neurotic cranky and A slave to drunkenness
He claims to be a liberal Free-thinking anti-racist For having marched in �85 With banners and raised fist
His daughter is the lesbian His broad thinking will accept His ex-wife the rendezvous He wishes he had kept
But like so many who’ve gone bald He has some trouble with Tuning into a Millennial’s Mystifying bandwidth
For instance he can’t understand Why people would attack His book about a writer who So happens to be black
So what if he forgot to mention The colour of his skin Is that really so important To a French Historian?
The more he tries to justify Himself with words or ink In social media quicksand The deeper he does sink
When Jean becomes a victim of Some cyber-bullying He wishes he had access to Doc Brown’s DeLorean
To travel back to �85 When he felt young and free And could let words slip out his mouth With impunity...more
I just moved out of a flat We lived in for four years About the size of a hat Filled to the brim with tears
Livingroomdiningroombedroom Were all squeezed i I just moved out of a flat We lived in for four years About the size of a hat Filled to the brim with tears
Livingroomdiningroombedroom Were all squeezed into one All I needed was a broom To tidy up my kingdom
No room had I of my own (My wife used the spare room) Five hundred books and a phone Were my only heirloom
The real ruler of the nation Was our five-year-old son Who occupied every square inch Like Attila the Hun
A small corner of the table Where we ate was all I had To pen a poem or a fable Of this I'm very glad
Not in a room but in a stanza I lived life to the full Busy busy were my hands Ah! life was never dull
We are now in a bigger flat And I have my own desk Should I be excited that My life’s less picturesque?
And from my many windows I will see many moons And sometimes there might be rainbows But will my rhymes have rooms?...more
The world is full of fascists There are fascists in my lettuce I can taste their upraised fists Eat our salads they won’t let us
The world is full of fasc The world is full of fascists There are fascists in my lettuce I can taste their upraised fists Eat our salads they won’t let us
The world is full of fascists Goose-stepping through my dreams Crushing flowers and midnight trysts —One of their many evil schemes
The world is full of fascists They won’t seem to go away Like the bully who insists That his violence is only play
The world is full of fascists Some are even in my soup Others may be masochists To Nazi grub I’ll never stoop
The world is full of fascists But I'll keep on reading books Penned by poets whose shopping lists Include new penises and boobs...more
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