nthposition online magazine

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 youíve 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 Ė whatís 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, itís all good.

Thatís a double play,
if youíre scoring at home... or
if you're scoring by your-
self. Dare I say -

Barbara, Jenna, the First twins -
en fuego?
Iím 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

Donít let the title fool you -
truth be told, should this Odeís 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. ďappellationsĒ;) 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 titleís
        a smokescreen, a MacGuffin, man without country, poem without subject -

ĒThere are no lions in the highlands of ScotlandĒ
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 lessonís learned - crisis averted - no moral imperative imparted:  
    escapist entertainment, or have I created art
        for artís sack, like The Life & Times of B.J. King by Tugnutt?