Does the snow reflect the moon, or does the moon
Reflect the snow? Your teeth are chattering,
Your fingers numb. The doctor puts the snow
Back in its box, the moon in its album cover.
I'm sorry to tell you, you were never free.
Please pay the nurse, your mother, as you leave.
The correct specification is yellow.
Moreover, brown was inadvertently omitted
From the specifications list
Along with some low-priority items,
E.g., red and orange.
The flowers were a decision-level error.
Major cutbacks will now be necessary
At virtually all levels.
We apologize in advance
For any inconvenience.
Needless to say, the director is furious.
He only wants to hide the situation
And keep it hidden.
We have fifty billion tons of
Snow on order.
The highway was slick
With the squashed hulls of
Mice,
Bloody and making her sick.
(The radio's advice:
Drive like hell,
Ignoring the smell.)
When she gets to her desk
They're hurling volleys of
Slippers,
Pelting her face and head.
(Stop it,
she whispers,
I feel like an ant.
They answer, We can't.
)
The hidalgo sits polishing
His finely machined boots
With a garbage collector.
He hears lions roar in the distance.
At four o'clock in the afternoon
The sunlit river underflows
The arches of Westminster Bridge.
Bong! bong! bong!
The goose girl channels her way
Through the quacking crowd,
Scattering line feeds.
She hears tigers snarl in the distance.
Something needs to be replaced,
Either Spain, or my A.L.U.
Farewell, farewell, my little Spanish ode!
Tomorrow I shall write a Mexican sundae.
A froglet by a pond on Rhodes
Aspired to sing computer codes.
He sought a group of bigger frogs,
Who mocked him from their hollow logs.
We bullfrogs sing in C++;
You're just a Fortranunculus.
Re-mark a bull, Mark:
Re-mark a bull mark …
Remarkable mark—
Remarkable, Mark!
Boutique for the Blind
See my poem, how exciting!
Age and youth in competition,
Eye for color and position:
See my picture exhibition!
See my poem, callow creature!
Eye it for a secret feature:
Oh, I've got it—thank you, teacher!
This poem is a face
Permanently frowning.
This poem is a lake
In which you are drowning.
This poem is a poem,
But don't you believe it.
This poem is a Trojan Horse,
You're a fool to receive it.
This poem is lying,
It cannot be true.
Now that it is dying,
It gives you to you.
| 1 | Sleep. |
| 1 | Snore. |
| 2 | Hear sound … |
| 3 | Alarm clock! |
| 5 | What was I dreaming? |
| 8 | Who were the others in my dreams? |
| 13 | Who, in this world of hard things, are the other dreamers? |
To all you wretched sinners, ill-bred and ill-behaved,
A happy band of singers comes to tell you that you're saved!
The Brightly Shining Bartzboy was born on Bartzmas Day,
So hear our cheer and give us beer and then we'll go away.
The Brightly Shining Bartzboy was born upon a star
In an all-nite bowling alley by St. Alligaster's Bar.
We bring you Bartzmas blessings and bright tokens from afar:
A smock, a sock, a spigot, and a seven-cent cigar.
When joined hands part
Semper amorem crescere vel minui constat. Love is always growing or diminishing. —Andreas Capellanus