POEM: Questions of The Night Watch

What creates more and bigger monsters…

fear or drink?
boredom or loneliness?
Hell or High Water?

And when the Captain points the way…

How does one know that one has put the monster to the fore?
What lurks in the shadowed archway, behind?

Who charges forward to the tune of,

“Lead onward, oh ye of the pointy stick!”

 

 

And why does yonder illuminated woman carry a chicken?

It’s a snack too raw for the Night Watch,
but too small to distract a monster.

POEM: All Hail, Warhol! [Day 17 NaPoMo: Doggerel]

[With doggerel the only way to be “good” is to be ironically bad.]



Being a true genius must be hard work.
Is there a less laborious path to the perks?

I’m so glad you asked:
Just convince the right person you’re a genius,
and you’ll be in like porn star penis.

Just stack some boxes of Brillo pads,
reprint some old burger joint ads,
slather color on portraits — Tammy Faye Bakker-style —
(just make sure to showcase the subject’s creepiest smile.)

Lest you think I’m just being snarky,
I say this without a trace of malarkey,
if you can buy mansions off a soup can label you didn’t design,
genius is too meek of a word, you stink of the divine.
[Like Odysseus being dropped in the lap of goddesses
who were ready & eager to pop open their bodices.]
Do you think the Campbell’s marketing artist has a mansion?
He probably retired with a meager pansion.

I say this without derision,
to be great artist you don’t need to show in galleries, Parisian
you simply need to showcase your vision
of some poor shmuck’s labors
to the person who can get you a better class of neighbors.