|
The Final Ride by Richard Moore Civilization sucks. Upheavel on upheavel with evil heaped on evil shall bring us to the crux. Then a tremendous battle will end us. Let's give up hope; and down the slope we'll just keep sleddin' to Armageddon. Society has died. Listen! I hear it humming: "Barbarians are coming. They shall become our guide, transform our System. Who can resist 'em? Let's give up hope; and down the slope we'll just keep sleddin' to Armageddon." Like take my wife, the pain. To heinous acts she'll force me, then, in revenge, divorce me. Marriage gone down the drain, she's doing---well---per- haps I can help her. Let's give up hope; and down the slope we'll just keep sleddin' to Armageddon. My mind and I, at odds, litigate, sign releases. Look at us! We're in pieces. I think the fault is God's. The universe is laced with His curses. Let's give up hope; and down the slope we'll just keep sleddin' to Armageddon. |
High Hopes by Richard Moore By God, you'll never catch her in a coffee klatsch, frivolously delighting in gossip and backbiting. She, free of the caffeine found in the coffee bean--- doubters, don't doubt it!---weans herself from said dread beans, no longer squanders bucks in places like Starbucks, has seen her chance, can grab it and kick the wretched habit, sleep sounder every night.... God, have I got this right? O Lord, down, down I'm sinking, drowned in my wishful thinking. |
The No-Ball Prize by Richard Moore One of its founder's cuter tricks: no prizes in mathematics. He didn't rise above the strife: a likely winner nightly had dinner, etcet'ra, with his, Alfred's, wife. Ah well, who needs the goddamn Swedes? |
Genius Is Forever Making Distinctions by Richard Moore There's a difference in kind (cried paint-slinger Titian) between a Venetian blind and a blind Venetian. |
Enfant Terrible by Richard Moore His purple prick begets his purple prose, the lusty plume on which his spirit preens; he treads to glory, panting in its throes. Listeners all, he leads them by the nose: critics, reviewers, academic deans.... His purple prick begets his purple prose that gathers in a rage and floods and flows like a burst dam submerging rustic greens. He treads to glory, panting in its throes, basks in success, and buys himelf new clothes, a business suit, discards his poet's jeans. His purple prick begets his purple prose but won't stay in his pants, and embryos, aborted, demonstrate how art demeans. He treads to glory, panting in its throes, and no observer calculates the woes that organ brings....Police! Call the Marines! His purple prick begets his purple prose; he treads to glory, panting in its throes. |
Biographers by Richard Moore Nothing deters biographers. It is said in the law--- O it's senseless!--- that the dead these worms gnaw are defenceless. What a pain in the rectum! It's insane. Let's protect 'em. Seal 'em off in a tight coffin.... And those writers? Hang the blighters! |