The love that speaks in vain

Composed on the occasion of Natalie meeting our waiter Dwayne.

There once was a waiter named Dwayne,
Whose biceps were totally insane,
He worked in WeHo,
And was likely homo,
So this limerick is probably in vain.

Everybody Hurts

Between the sheets I spend my days,
And please myself with thoughts forbidden.
Hours pass enjoying my private play,
Feeling sure my lazy indulgence remains quite hidden.

And so it was that I'd stretched out,
Sometime past half past noon,
Flaunting all that body I rarely flout,
Only the radio and my breathing to fill the room.

"When the day is long and the night,
The night is yours alone,"
The lyrics had set the mood just right,
And in my ease my length had turned to stone.

But as I slipped into that repose,
And was about to enjoy a little slice of death,
Something happened which curled my toes,
And snatched away my breath.

My ears had been pricked,
By the turning of the lock,
Which now had clicked,
Preparing me if not them for quite a shock.

I cocked my head and wondered what to do,
I hoped my brain would come and help me out,
But only REM, the real estate agent and the Robertsons came through,
"If you feel like you're alone,
No, no, no you are not alone."

Many features of this house are quite striking,
Janet the agent began her pitch,
Unfortunately one not quite to the Robertson's liking,
Was the house guest without a stitch.

I had no idea what to do,
Janet the agent's commission was surely gone,
So I just listened to the REM still coming through,
Telling me, "Hold on, hold on, hold on..."

She's not even in love...

There’s this girl you see…
She has great hair, great eyes and the best personality.
I’d say she lights up the entire room but she doesn’t.
She just lights up a little corner…just enough for me.
My buddies they don’t get it at all.
Some think she’s too short.
Some think she’s too tall.
Her butt’s this. Her butt’s that.
She’s way too skinny. She’s way too fat.
So when I tell them how I feel
they’re at a loss. But that’s my gain,
Because, and I find this surreal,
I’m a lone voice when I proclaim,
Her virtues to the world.
I want to buy her roses.
No, wait, fuck that!
I want to lay a giant path of rose petals,
from her door to mine, thick, deep and wide,
a really luxurious path covering the concrete and metals,
so she can walk barefoot along the side,
of the road.
And I’d put out torches
and the most thoughtful little notes
with little scorches
around the edge so they’d look antiqued.
She likes that. She thinks it’s funny.
I’m not supposed to know that.
There’s a lot of things I’m not supposed to know.
And I’d like to send her gifts to show
how much I care. How much I pay attention
to what she says whenever she’s around.
But I know she already knows
because my face it glows
and I can’t stop smiling
and the problem is…it weirds her out.
And I hate that.
I want to play hard to get.
And you can say it’s her problem
or it’s her loss
that she’s not secure enough or what have you
but I just bet
that the last time someone couldn’t hide how much they cared about
you it freaked you out.
Hell I’d be freaked out too.
That’s one thing I’ll never get,
Why you can’t love someone more than they love you.

7 Hours Gone

7 hours gone,
1 hour remained,
Lines written…none!
I was going to go insane.

I really really wanted just one awesome poem,
One fantastic piece of rhyming verse. That’s all I’d need!
That’s all I’d need to show em,
That I was the last of a dying breed.

The last great rhyming poet,
Heir to Coleridge’s throne,
Then with every other poem I’d try to write I could blow it,
Because I’d have that one poem and that’s the only thing for which I’d be known.

Which is really all it takes,
How many Byron poems do you know?
Maybe two. And William Blake’s,
Only got one so…

I mean don’t get me wrong. Tyger! Tyger!’s great,
But really…it’s a poem about a big stripey cat,
Who skulks around and stays out late,
Forests of the night! I can do better than that!

Or at least one would hope…
I thought that all I’d need was a decent stretch of uninterrupted time,
That was my excuse. But nope,
7 hours…and all I’ve got are some funny but totally unpublishable rhymes.

She sits three rows in front,
I want to stick my dick inside her cunt!

Yeah I don't think that's a keeper...

Chicana Chicana

Para Ji Ji Sternad

Chicana Chicana
por El Casador

Chicana Chicana
She-can-a, She-can-a,
She-can-a do whatever that-a she wanna.

In college tradition when from too much to drink,
You pass out zapatos and pies firmly in sync,
Friends gather round to scratch out the dirtiest things,
All over your face in the most permanent ink.
But Chicana Chicana don’t wait to get drunk,
Each morning she gets up before the moon’s sunk,
And pulls out her plumas and coats them in gunk,
To light up her face like a Benedict monk.

Chicana, Chicana
She-can-a, She-can-a,
She-can-a do whatever that-a she wanna.

“Chicana Chicana,” the old biddies say,
“How you can do that every last day?
Muchachos will come and they’ll want to play
But Chicana Chicana you won’t make them stay.”
She ruffles her feathers when they’re done and said,
And with a soft smile and lilt of her head,
“If I want them that bad that we go to wed,
I can’t want them that bad that they escape’s from my bed.”

Chicana Chicana
She-can-a, She-can-a,
She-can-a do whatever that-a she wanna.

And so an advice to those of you who write,
With sharpie and sharp tongue on debaucherous nights,
A cock or maldicho or some other slight,
On innocent faces drunk out of sight.
“You ke-ep on writing whatever you wrote,
The joke was on suckers so laugh up and gloat,
But try and mark up Chicana Chicana’s top coat,
And you’ll lose your pen, it’s deep in creosote.”

Ah Chicana Chicana
She-can-a, She-can-a,
She-can-a do whatever that-a she wanna.

No silly, poetry isn't dead. It's just sleeping...

Hello. Do you like poetry? You may in fact like poetry without even realizing it. Did you know many popular songs are in many ways poems set to music? So much so that rap artists are sometimes referred to as Urban Poets. Non-Urban Poets or Pastoral Poets often deal with different settings but the basic themes of love and triumph over adversity are the same as in rap and both groups of artists employ many of the same techniques such as rhyme, assonance, alliteration and many others. So the next time your mother asks you to turn that racket down tell her your listening to poetry then apologize for your insolence and ask to be sent to bed without dessert. She'll ruff up your hair tell you you're a cheeky bugger and give you seconds. In an effort to bring these many forms of poetry together we have selected a poem by a young man from Southern California which incorporates elements from both punk music and traditional verse.

I wish this was a punk song…

A sophomore / A senior / Old story / You’ve been there,
I saw her / at lunch / sitting / with a bunch,
Of kids / her own age / acting / real sage,
And figured / I’d never / show them / what clever really was.

I wasted my youth / reading poetry,
Studying to study / for a college degree.
I should have spent my time / fingering guitar,
And playing for chicks / in the back of a car,
Then instead of a poem / How fucking lame!
This’d be a punk song / And I’d have some fucking game.

A party / at my house / open invite / has a price,
A buddy / who knew her / and wanted / to screw her,
Asks, “Can she come / to your place / I need her / shitfaced,
I’ll cover / for her beer / if that’s why / you appear pale right now.”

I see her through the crowd / looking at me,
With a face that says / how perfect we’d be.
If only I could find / some sort of way,
To win her heart / without sounding totally gay,
If instead of a poem / How fucking lame!
This was a punk song / And I had some fucking game.

My pal / he takes her / and leads her / upstairs,
And just as / she goes / she looks back / and I know,
That if I had / a spine / she still could / be mine,
But I say / it’s too late / sit down / and capitulate.

I couldn’t care less / if he sleeps with her,
If we were together / I’d forget the things that were.
But how can that be / when all I’ve got to show,
Is an antiquated art form / with rhymes that blow.
But if instead of a poem / How fucking lame!
This was a punk song / Then I’d have some fucking game.

I’d go by / one night / She turns out / the light,
My amp / is turned on / And I sing / my song.
She opens / her window / Her face is / aglow,
She cries / I cry / We’ll talk soon / but goodbye for now.

She says yes / she says no,
She says yes / then apart we grow.
At least at the end / I’d have something cool,
To make up for my loss / and feeling like a fool.
If instead of a poem / How fucking lame!
This was a punk song / Then I’d get some fucking fame!

I’d tape / my song / and send it / along,
To labels / they’d love me / they’d sign me / and shove me,
Into / the spotlight / and then / overnight,
I’d be / a huge star / because of / the guitar I played as a kid.

And because of this song / I’d have triplet platinum blondes,
Who could never replace / that sophomore for whom I longed.
And after all of that / meaningless excess,
I’d find her again / and put her in a wedding dress.
All if instead of a poem / How fucking lame!
This was a punk song / Then I’d need something else to blame.