Advice For My Vice
“Your work would benefit from some restraint.”
Good grief, I thought this was a James Joyce group.
Was there a complaint? Did someone feel faint?
They’ll feel better after a good healthy poop.
“You would garner more followers if you
Tempered your content.” But I do this.
I just said poop. Or do you prefer doo-doo?
I didn’t even offer my ass to kiss.
Oops! I did it again, used a bad word.
Hold up, didn’t Joyce write in a letter
to Nora - “my dirty little fuckbird”?
OK, OK, I swear, I’ll do better.
And what would Joyce do with this restraint bit?
You can bet your ass he’d call it horseshit.
Stay tuned for more advice sonnets.
Same retrained time, same choked-out channel.
“Why The Sonnet?” asked the Devastating Open-Mic Controller, Part II
See “Why the Sonnet? Part I” for the why.
Here’s how my sonnet addiction was born:
My gateway was Hemingway, on the sly,
I ripped, “For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn.”
But my six-packs rhymed. Then I pulled the same
And smashed Ezra Pound and grabbed his Haiku.
His modernist battle cry was to blame
For my punching in rhyme and making it new.
Already, I was crushed by Ulysses,
So I drank the hard stuff, took on the Rhyme Lord.
Sparring with sonnets isn’t for sissies.
Bang with the Bard and you’re sure to be floored.
Forever, I’ve been punch drunk on James Joyce.
So, no, I never chose my drug of choice.
Stay tuned for more snitchy sonnets.
Same stool pigeon time, same singing canary channel.
For Gerty MacDowell, Not Anne Gregory
‘Never shall a gentleman,
Who longs to be your beau
Wooed by your nutbrown tresses
Lit by the sun’s last glow,
Love your fair, unsullied soul,
And not your seaside peep show.’
‘But I wore nainsook knickers.
And hid my down-below
With lucky blue undies,
So that any Romeo
May love my fair, unsullied soul,
And not some seaside peep show.’
‘I read a wild Irishman
Whose books cause vertigo,
His Ulysses forever proves
That even Bloom, full of woe,
Loved not your fair, unsullied soul,
But only your seaside peep show.’