The blame game, Ménage à Bush twins & Ode to Balzac
by Alessandro Porco
[ poetry - february 05 ]
The blame game
Blame it on the
funkyspunk
Blame it on drunkmonks
Blame it on the bull and the bunk
And the funk on a nastydunk
Just leave me out of it!
Blame it on promnight kitsch
Blame it on the inside pitch
Blame it on the second wife, her three kids
Blame it on fruitcakes at The Ritz
Just leave me out of it!
Blame it on sexually ambiguous dolphins
And overdetermined virgins
Blame it on what you’ve been missing -
Protein, carbs, and 22 vitamins -
Just leave me out of it!
Blame it on defective rubbers
Blame it on the cream of cucumbers
Blame it on toothy hummers
And dreams of supercalifragilistic slumbers
Just leave me out of it!
Blame it on the perfect plan
And hoodlums who love on the lam
Blame it on the candidate dancing a cancan
- But not his Bourbon St. Madam -
Oh, and leave me out of it!
Blame a thousand shades of blue
And a thousand more shades of truth
Caged like leopards at the Washington zoo
Blame it on – what’s the use?
Just leave me the hell out of it!
Ménage à Bush twins
a cento composed of ESPN Sportscenter anchor catchphrases
Good wood,
solid spank, major league
crank. Like gravy
on a biscuit, it’s all good.
That’s a
double play,
if you’re scoring at home... or
if you're scoring by your-
self. Dare I say -
Barbara, Jenna,
the First twins -
en fuego?
I’m not sure if I know
what the pitch is, but it tastes like chicken.
This just in: Bush is good, jelly
to the donut, baby! - Let it three.
Ode to Balzac
Don’t let
the title fool you -
truth be told, should this Ode’s proposed subject ever
come up, say, in a FRENCH LITERATURE
Final Jeopardy, for example, the answer-clue
given
contestants would be utterly lost on me;
or, too, if in the company of literati ,
who, let it be said, insert foreign appellations of
literary
reputation into dinner-party conversations
to prove their intellectual ballast:
like pompadour coiffures; tweed jackets with elbow patches;
super- (cf. “appellations”;) grandiloquence;
& handlebar moustaches -
well, I just get a kick out of
saying Balzac,
emphasis on
the homophonic entendre.
Ball. Sack. Perhaps juvenile,
but like I said, I like it said, my title’s
a smokescreen, a MacGuffin, man
without country, poem without subject -
”There are no lions in the highlands of Scotland”
The aphorism delimits a theory of suspense put forth by Hitchcock -
it would be a shame not to... Hitch. Cock.
˜where style is visible
substance, some invisible hand
pens The End in elegant cursive, but
by then no lesson’s learned - crisis averted - no moral imperative
imparted:
escapist entertainment, or have I created art
for art’s sack, like The
Life & Times of B.J. King by Tugnutt?
