Iambic Ixplosion

“Mr. President Says There’s No One by the Name of Satan East of the Mississippi”

by Brian Le Lay

 

Christ became the purchase in a land
Of pickpockets and false prophets,
You’ll grow hair on your palms
If you masturbate, so stop it

Satan is a matchstick on a spill
Of gasoline, your sins catch flame,
Shame is a parental philosophy,
And Satan is a sham magician

Will saw you in thirds, steal your organs
Satan doesn’t live in Georgia where
They hanged a black man last year,
Cheered for justice, not in DC

With its clan of carnival barkers,
Clowns and jerks, not on our Wall Street
Where a timebomb ticks
Get-rich-quick and bankrupt

The local butcher, hold him upsidedown,
Carve him out, drag his pockets
Tar and feather his earholes and eyesockets
With a slew of false promises

Who would stoop so low as to go
West of the Mississippi, don’t you know
The city of quirks, cons, commies and queers
Satan lives in San Francisco!

Who would stoop so low as to go
West of the Mississippi, Satan’s in an attic
High atop North Beach
Calling for your hand in marriage,

Don’t be fooled, cool clean streets mean
The rats and misfits must be hiding
In the alleys, blended into jazz murals,
Where the city lights burn infernal,

Who would stoop so low as to go
West of the Mississippi, in the East
We’re more transparent,
We keep our raw sewage

Bubbling in the streets
For all to see,
Which some mistake
For honesty

 

“Scientific Findings on the Life of Australopithecus”

by Meg Eden

 

lucy did not have

opposable toes. lucy

had socks on, and she walked

with the outside of her foot because

of the limp, a birth-defect. she was ex-

communicated because of her cartoonish

ape-like features. she had to carry

her freak-child on her back and walk

for a very long time.

lucy had long arms that dragged

dangerously near the ground, stretched

like a gumbi rag doll. lucy had

a lover for two days, who beat her

with a metal rod, the first tool —

lucy looked at the hair covering

her genitalia and wondered

what it meant to be a woman.

 

lucy was a hagar, carrying an ishmael

through the desert, but God did not

save lucy this time. lucy and child collapsed

with an eroding cliff, their bodies

consumed by rubble, their bones

broken into fine pieces like bread,

and all that could be found

were moments of indiscernible dust,

which could mean just about anything.

 

“westboro”

by Meg Eden

 

satan parading down the street in panties, bra

over his eyes, dancing with pickets digging

into his palms — i am Jesus! he screams. passers-bys in pajamas

and boxers and facial cream stare, holding up their bibles — it

all makes sense now! barbie smiles, talking. talking. satan

in paper mache mask and stick-on dollar store mustache.

satan waving his fire arms, smearing blood

on passer-by’s eyelids, noses, collar bones — see!

he wiggles his fingers. see, and tell them how much I hate

fags. like a loud noise, they scatter — like deer interrupted,

they stagger with curlers and flapping breasts and hairy

legs, throwing bibles like lethal tampons holy water timed grenades:

I am here for talking. talking. we close the doors between

their noses. we know better than this. God sits somewhere

above us, head in his palm, mourning —

what have you done, my people? oh, my people.

 

“God Picks Me Up As I’m Dancing on the Bar and Carries Me Home”

by Christine Reilly

 

But I was having fun, I say.

 

 

 

Outside, we can see a little leak in the moon.

She’s just getting it out of her system,

he tells me.

She has too much hormone inside.

 

Her insides rock-salt colored,

Spilling, spreading open like a silk umbrella

 

You can’t keep doing this to your body, god tells me.

Easy for him to say.  His body’s as thin as a wafer,

a gamey bouquet of flint and cloud.

He digs a hole inside me,

Pulling out a worm.  12 3 Tequila I yelp.

It’s too late.

 

“Red Sadness”

by Peter Shin

 

Oh what red sadness splattered on the ground,
The sweetest and fairest I know from all around.
You slipped from my hand,
And fell on the land.

Oh such sadness, why did you have to fall?
You were the sweetest, the sweetest of them all.
Why tomato did you have to spatter?
You were supposed to be served on my platter.
Great tomato you were to be put on my salads,
Now because of you I write such sad ballads.

Comments

comments

One thought on “Iambic Ixplosion

  1. Peter — you are quite the Renaissance man! I loved this poem.
    (I’m going to post it on my refrigerator to make me smile every time I (carefully) reach for a tomato.)

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