A thread where you commission a poem from ILE

Ode To A Clydesdale

O! Equine brute of might and mane!
Beast of massive hoof and thews!
How thy massy tail doth lift
To greet this morn of frosty hues.

How thy farts erupt like thunder,
Startling mice and men and muse,
Tearing quietude asunder,
Raising clouds like smoke from flues.

Thy oat-crammed guts, like shots from guns,
Send volleys shattering the peace.
One might suspect thou hast the runs,
And 'stead of oats, have fed on grease,

So steady drum thy rumbling roars,
As each is birthed, comes two a-borning!
Yet thou thyself stands quietly,
As stolid as a stone this morning.

there was a young man called tuomas
whose bollocks were simply enormous
when hassled by boize
who listen to noize
he said: "fuck off, i'm a non-conformist".

nb: this is predicated, perhaps, on a misunderstanding of how to pronounce "tuomas". sorry, tuomas. in mitigation: it did only take me 30 seconds to write.

I am myself available for sonnets.

These nephews of mine! I cannot control
what bubbles up in me
such - such uncontrollable

something as can only
(when my handle is lost)
send me flying, fowlly

flapping! Rage-engorged
my face, my feet slapping
side-by-side both up and

down and up and down -
twinned, as these triplet
nephews are my - death of me!

Apoplectic me! I have cracked
in three. I can only
Quack! Quack!

Quack! Quack! Quack!
Quack! Slap feet!
Beat again! I beeten!

Burst all to bits,
last feathers lost and floating.
My kvetch fatal.

Alas! Ack!

I would like to read a poem entitled "My days with the possible penguin". It needn't be about birds. It could be about architecture.

Yes, that would be nice. Will it happen, I wonder??

Across the golden plains of Nebraska
In bounding glory drunk on wine and youth
Approach three lads, and An'thny in mask, a
small marsupial baring, just, a tooth
The boys, all strapping strong and bronze with sun,
Now loosed from labors turn with brightened eyes
Upon the prospects of night not begun
Aching of arms and breath, thrusting of thighs
In rows of corn, chest high and kernel rich,
And watched with furtive glee by faux wombat,
The trinity tumbles through hedge and ditch
A verse from some Midwestern Rubaiyat
Not ten miles from Omaha is this:
A masque of red state dappled farmboy bliss.

it needn't be about birds you see
or the ride on the lexington IRT
past the carwash and the street kebab
to the seals that slap against the stucco slab
to the bright bay window den of cats
where students peer past stainless slats
the birds don't have to walk on poles
there's ice atop the infill holes

(and thx, peeps)

Those times are a half-forgotten potraiture
of whatever objects must have been before me,
under a soft light shed from a certain angle -
I can't quite recall. I might, trying hard

Remember them. Slatted sides that loomed
Ever higher than I stood - stocking-footed?
It is an ever-deepening puzzle that I lived
Or half-lived and might have dreamed it all.

My friends seem more knowing than I, more
Tuned, more recollective, when we foregather
And speak of those times. What could they
Mean, being so certain, so bound, determined?

If penguins had arrived and waddled past us
As we went our merry ways among the walls,
the asphalt planes, the dim-shapen foliage -
Planted as I have no doubt they all were,

Then maybe they might understand my reluctance
To settle on this story we all nod at,
This story of our mutual thrust and glory,
Wherein I alone find room for a possible penguin.

I have some further commissions for anyone who might want them:

- A poem titled "Wearing the Corporate Wig", which should include the word 'vermicelli'.

- A poem that somehow incorporates these near-rhyming pairs: fondue/phoned you, municipal/kissable, laughter/pap smear, garbled/gargled.

- A poem in couplets that discusses mass transit. Wit and style counts, if you please.

- Three haiku suggested by a supermarket.

- A poem entitled "Counting up to a hundred by quarters"

Thank you.

***

The best cereal
is the easiest to reach.
Every child knows this.

***

Open the glass door,
the frost will make it opaque.
Think before you act.

in the macy's basement
by the dutch ovens and the wedding-gift fondue
is where she phoned you
from the hundred-dollar burger
on the field at morristown municipal
she seemed so kissable
if you remembered one thing
it was the choppy cadence of her laughter
awkward as a pap smear
the reception was spotty
two bars, one bar, half of it was garbled
half of it was gargled

a poem about standing in line for a tv taping, and please use the words "hirsute," "almond roca," and "clip art"

Etant pauvre, le seul moyen de réaliser ma bacchanale
De me reveiller le teint blême, les yeux rouges, la voix rauque
Est de boire goulûment ce produit d’un vigneron banal
Qui n’etant ni fin ni recherché est peu cher mais bien glauque

Ces viticulteurs qui préferent l’argent facile au fruits de l’art
De nous bénir d’un vin mémorable, ces minables scélérats
Si j’avais leurs fric au lieu de leur vilain pinard
Je vous assure, leur vinasse, je ne le boirai certainement pas

Etant pauvre je n’ai pas de choix mais du vin il me faut
Vous me dites, “n’en bois point.” C’est facile à dire
Je ne peux me contenter d’un simple verre d’eau.
Car entre le vin mauvais et rien, c’est rien le pire

what e’er it takes to bring the package through.
Go leave a trail of bodies in your wake,
stomp flat the foe beneath your spikéd shoe.

The bones of thine own teammates do not break;
you’ll know them by the shirts that look like yours.
Yon brave crusaders crush the evil snake,

and after battle’s won, one quest endures;
some Spice Girls yet unwed, oh wild frontier!
Tabloids yet to litter with your spoor,

a mighty thirst to slake with pints of beer,
and hearts to fill with envy and with fear.

there once was a man from nantucket
who bought some corn and did shuck it
shucked his hands to the bone
cuz he lived all alone
shooting husks into a KFC bucket

Is this my chance? Three hours in line
To say "Nothing says pudding like My-T-Fine"
I'm cornfed America, I'm broke and it's Christmas
I'll work these lines like nobody's business

The girl in front of me's a little too cute
The girl in front of her, a little hirsute.
I got a zit on my nose, fucking Almond Roca
Ben and Jerry's Cookie Dough and Mocha Mocha Mocha

Hell with this, I'm going home
Fuck this Corporate Amerika Pleasure-Dome
Where the rent-a-cop with his can of mace
Knows my socks don't match my clip-art face

SURPRISE! SURPRISE!
The Shunning will be televised
Though not exactly a revolution
unless you mean the same old
excruciation shit
come round again—
tired world turning
like a turkey on a spit,
Witches burning at the stake—
some habits are too hard to break—
Smoking, scorning,
the ultimate global warming,
like a birthday candle we can’t blow out,
this is no time to wallow in doubt,
follow whimsical hunches or smell a rat,
pity the clumsy or coddle the fat.

The lifeboats are crowded, there’s really no room
for those who are doomed,
or improperly groomed.
Don’t look at me, I didn’t choose
to wear the wrong shoes.
Who do you think I am? You?
There are so many ways a loser can lose.
I could count them, lounging in my bath
if I was any good at math.

Easier to draw a line in the sand,
than build a bridge across the moat,
especially when the tide is coming in, the votes
counted.

String her up, you know our time is billable
and intelligent debate has too many syllables.
Vox Populi, bless ‘em, seals her fate
Don’t think, just toss
the witch into the drink!
thumbs down,
whether she floats or drowns.

The pop and sizzle of the dying
smells a lot like bacon frying,
warms us in our living rooms,
lullabyes us in the womb.

On our sectional sofas
and La-Z-Boy chairs,
supporting our troops
and saying our prayers,
we dress her in burlap
and hack off her hair.

Welcome to the censure
of the new century
No subtle act
of turning our backs.
Nothing that requires training
in the classics
to appreciate.
Don’t be late
to berate!
Tempus fugit! Carpe diem!
gotta call ‘em as you see ‘em!
Help defend our happy home!
When it comes to casting the first stone,
or making a difference,
or even a dent,
It doesn’t take
a PhD in history to see
there’s no time
like the present.

usr/bin?

good old god old's
cranking silos in
my mind circa 1979,
i can recall a lot
of golden everything.

pennsylvania 1, 2, 3.

where should i be?

where should i be going?

nowhere like a plan,
i can see a mission
pushing my parents
and in some vague
little kid kind of way
sign on for a trip to:
1 Grand Adventure
Nowhere, USA

somewhere upon the
liquor, she licking
me into shape i do,
i say, "i do"
and fax the dog tag
into the river of
shape into scchrne.

no more vowels for sugar.

leaves the poetry.

guts the interface like
a chopped USB mouse.

how can i reach where
i'm reaching anymore?

pushing the cart along
i realize i'm not really
a rabbit, i'm just wearing
a mask, a sack, with a
crumpled ear feeling
art on target,
no jedi mind trick,
just sniffing the winged windy winder winnie wining window wind.

my mind pickled in a jar
for a dull teacher to quit the mission
and nest up in a cubicle.

wart ghos was once a wart hog,
he snapped,
he slayed,
he goosed,
and he got laid.

these days he's got yon bills to be paid.

he slurps for someone else's dreams to be sayed.

towing liquor to other lips.
wondering what nostalgia hits
are sleeving up sleaves to cups
toasted Fickle Co.'s and Arf Arf marts.

this the gas bag shriveled.
this the picture of a dragon gangle doon crown doing the missionary position on a bed of fancy cheese and crackers, now deflated, possibly for the best there because it was pretty gross to look at, but all okay.

all actually okay. (especially now that he's made himself laugh.)
m.

the importance of tapes

Tape is used for painting
Bureaucracy bright red.
Tape is used for mixing
In circles.

Without the tapes, the worms would
Be short a famous worm.
Without tapes, sello would be
But nonsense.

The Scotch would have to replace
Their national adhesive;
And every single duct would
Be leaking.

We cannot just eat nade, or
Adorn our walls with stries,
The joys of living would
Just r off.

ILX is better when this thread is active.

I would like to commision a poem about handicrafts.

A Tragic Yarn

What’s wrong with me
that suddenly I covet
the Gustav Klimt
needlepoint pillow-cover kit?
Creeping biddy-hood? Shit.
Next it’ll be
potpourri
in a basket shaped like a duck
with a satin bow choking
its wicker neck.
Heck,
I’m only fifty-two,
still playing with a full deck.
No scented mildew in my
nether-regions yet.
But look there,
you silly square
if you squint you can see all the
crazy gray hairs,
haloing my muddled head.
I’m gonna take my needlepoint to bed.
Gray and silver, mewl and whine,
one big dirty-work design.

Thank you Beth, wherever you are.

demanding a Petrarchian sonnet that forms an acrostic of "YO! DON'T HAVE A COW!" seems a bit much to impose on lesser mortals than Beth or The Vintner's Lipogram.

I'm a bit sketchy on Petrarchan sonnets, but the Internet is our friend.

YO! DON'T HAVE A COW!

You ask me for a poem, or a song,
Of unattain'ble love (says Wikipedia).
Dear Aimless: anywhere your wont may lead ya --
Our thread, while rambling, will never be Wrong.

Now I sit here, searching for just the word
That fits the starting letter of next line --
Hypothesis? Hirsute? Or Hyperfine?
And so on. Many still remain unheard.

Vernacular? high style? how shall I sing it?
Each choice constrains my stances and my poses;
As does the addend to any addition.
Come Judgement Day, I'll be obliged to wing it:
"Oh, what I did was speaking of the process;
What I did not: strictly fulfill commission."

(pins blue ribbon to anatol's chest and weeping for joy he embraces him and kisses each cheek in turn)

words fail

<3 aimless; this was just drunkplay anyway for me tonight, but the thread is all-time classiX0r. It has made strangers cry etc.

this is where i shall pen my ode to ljs distress at having to pick a poem

that isnt his