"Marlin Brando and others..." Five More Poissons of Interest (Illustrated Images)

MARLIN BRANDO

SALMON RUSHDIE

WALLEYE SHAWN

BUSTER CRAB

JIMMY WHALES

"She saw an actor playing Lear upon a black-box stage..." Harrassment or She Saw s Scoundrel: A Constrained Nonsense Alphabet

She saw an actor playing Lear upon a black-box stage,

which actor then attacked her, crying, “…-til your cheeks crack! Rage!...”

She saw a brewer using hops to modify his malt,
which brewer tried to screw her, crying, “It’s your own damn fault.”

She saw a builder raising roof beams for a pine-log house,
which builder nearly killed her when she brushed his workman’s blouse.

She saw a butcher chopping steaks, a cleaver in each hand,
which butcher tried to putsch her, having sliced her thyroid gland.

She saw a broker packaging some questionable debt,
which broker tried to choke her when she queried, “Gross or net?”

She saw a choir conductor leading choristers in song, 
which schmuck went on to fuck her. Does he not know right from wrong?

She saw a doctor when she’d gotten gangrene in her toe,
which doctor socked her -- clocked her when she told him, “Doctor: No!”

She saw a draper cutting yard goods -- buntings, braids, brocades –
which draper tried to rape her (which he’s done to sev’ral maids).

She saw an etcher burnishing a graven copper plate,
which etcher tried to stretch her ‘cross an unforgiving grate.

She saw a farmer harvesting blood oranges and limes,
which farmer tried to harm her – and succeeded, sev’ral times.

She fled a grocer galling her (she’d claimed his yams were jokes),
which grocer promptly grossed her out: he show’d his artichokes.

She saw a wand’ring herder in Charmoise, attired in plaid,
which herder tried to murder her. (This herder hurt her…bad.)

She spotted an investor buying stocks and selling shares.
Molest her this investor did, while crying, “No one cares.”

She saw a jock who hemmed and hawed, “The gals I like? Good sports,”
which jock left her in shock once he had handed back her shorts.

She saw a Kaiser – Bill by name – whose German sounded Dutch,
which Kaiser told her lies. (Her mom had cautioned her as much.) 

She saw a lawyer -- name of Sawyer -- wearing lawyer's clothes.
Will this lawyer soon annoy her to distraction? I suppose.

She saw a miller grinding grain, his mortar sharply filed,
Which miller tried to drill her – with that very mortar. Wild!

She saw a neighbor who had stencil’d “Brillig!” on his van,
which neighbor will outgrabe her, being such a Carroll fan.

(a work in progress) 

She saw an organ grinder…
Will this organ grinder find her...

She saw a planter…
which planter...

She saw a Quaker...
which Quaker...

She saw a ranger…

She saw a rapper…

She saw a sailor…
which sailor tried to nail her…

She saw a tinker…

She saw an undertaker…
which undertaker’d break her if she...

She saw a voter...
which voter went and show’d her...

She saw a wrangler…
Which wrangler tried to strangl’ her…

She saw a writer…
which writer tried to bite her

She saw a x... 

She saw a y…

She saw a z…

Pin the Palin on the Honky: A Dimensional Image

As your warm thoughts about 
Senator McCain coalesce over coming days,
don't fail to recall that it was he who delivered us up 
to the dreaded Sarah Palin. 
Thank you, John for all your service.

"Some runners are dishes. One dish runs amok..." Some Runners & Some Silly Things Some Seem: A Constrained Nonsense Alphabet

(Sometimes some French river runners are called, by some, Somme Runners. Sometimes some cost accountants (sometimes referred to as "running the numbers") are called by some Sum Runners. The verses below are at no times concerned with either of these kinds of runners.) 

Some runners are dishes. One dish runs amok,
last seen running away...with a spoon! 
Some runners are bands. One's called Band on the Run!
(While its members are running, they croon.)   

Some runners are soldiers at sites like Bull Run; 
some expire for the North, some the South.  
Some don blue; some don grey; next to none win the day  
(though most Johnny Rebs run at the mouth).  

Some are hollowware runners. "My Cup Runneth Over"--
Ed Ames crooned these words to new tunes, 
while “My Cup," running eighth on the Billboard Hot Hundred,  
gets swizzled with runcible spoons.

Some runners are mowers. They run best on diesel.  
(Some say, "Nothing Runs Like a Deere.")
Some runners need pick-me-ups. (Feeling run down?
Don't run dry! And don't cry in your beer.)  

Some who run are exhausted. They're running on empty.
(Some obsolete runners are runes.) 
Some runners for office lie, then run for cover.
(Some running for president? Goons!)  

Some runners run gauntlets. (There's one runs the gamut.) 
There's sev'ral gun runners as well. 
Some runners, seen climbing the rungs of societal 
ladders, are honchos -- in hell.  

Some runners are flippers: they run hot and cold.
Some are spendthrifts. (That runs into money.) 
Some runners are smart, running Java online.
5K runs I'll run...when days turns sunny. 

In the long run, some runners are long-distance runners:
like Lola in "Run Lola Run."
Some are marathon runners. Some run at the mouth. 
(It appears those may never be done.)  

Some run -- run ‘n’ gun! Runny noses at Runnymede
spend several suns on the run.
One runner's run off with the well digger's wife.
(Now that well digger's dating a nun.) 

Some runners are dieters, running in place.
Some are prunes, quaffing Jeff Runquist wines,
which are not squeezed from prunes so won't give you the runs...
plus they'll help you make sense of these lines.

Some runners are Kenyans who lack running shoes:
these run plagued with severe running sores.
With such pustules -- so-o-o-o painful! -- they tend to run scared,
so they're not running silent (of cours'). 

Some runners run wild, like some runaway train,
so you can't predict what they will do.
Some runners are sharks, good at running the table
(depending on angle of view).

Some runners are barflies: they run up a tab
while forgetting their vehicle VIN numbers.
Yes, runners run wild; others run with the wolves.
(Running water will hydrate your cucumbers.)

Some runners go running in men's swimming “trunx.”
Damon Runyon was not one of those,
though he did recall Ruth hitting sixty home “runz.”
(Three bad puns bring my runs to a close.)

"Saul Bass and others..." Five Poissons of Interest (Illustrated Images)

SAUL BASS

MYRNA L'OYSTER

CAPTAIN HADDOCK

YOGI BERRACUDA

HUMPHREY TURBOTGART

"The world is so full of a number of things..." RLS Amplified: A Constrained Nonsense

  

The world is so full of a number of things...

of old cedar's and cypress’s annual rings;
of the roads to Morocco with Dots, Bobs and Bings;
of your governing folkmoots, your Icelandic Tings...

of those jubilant feelings each holiday brings;
of most Klingons -- detach'd -- and the Klingon who clings;
Francis Albert Sinatra’s “A-ring-ding-a-ding-ding!”s;
of Flash Gordons and Zarkovs, of Merciless Mings...

of the Irishmen’s ceilis, the Scots’ Highland Flings;
of your Brandy Manhattans, your Singapore Slings;
of brass cymbals with sizzles, gourd zithers with “zings”;
of your southern fried chickens, your barbecued wings...

of spondoolicks, of wampum, of cash that “ka-ching!”s;
Feinman's O-rings, your key rings and other odd blings;
of the Stones and the Beatles, the Elton's and Stings;
of black thespians – Sidneys, Tayes, Denzels and Vings...

of the Japanese Yukis, the Chinese Beijings;
of taut tom turkeys’ necks your great-grandmother wrings…
of I Chings with no strings, of Hong Kongs and Pekings;
of Premier Deng Xiaoping and the songs that Deng sings... 


I am sure we should all be as happy as kings.

"What's what follows all about? Herein's a hint: think 'Kilgore Trout'..." Fish Folk or Poissons of Interest: A Constrained Nonsense

What sounds like ‘fish’ but's spelt like ‘ghoti’? 
“Take the ‘f’ sound heard in ‘rough.’
The ‘i’ sound heard in ‘women,’” wrote he, *
“follows on. Then, sure enough,
the ‘sh’ sound heard in ‘nation’ ends it.” 

     * Ollier’s the ‘he’ who wrote it.
G. B. Shaw? He’s who defends it. 
(Spelling teachers love to quote it.)

What’s what follows all about? 

Herein’s a hint: think ‘Kilgore Trout,’

Kurt Vonnegut filet'd friend ‘Sturgeon’ – 

since when, new fish been emergin,’

fish folk finned and fish folk scaled 

(between swim fish folk swishy tailed:

a halibut, a crappie, a 

piranha, a tilapia).

From fish folk gilled through fish folk grilled, 

your fish-folk fancy’s here fulfilled

with fish folk gals and fish folk guys. 

(My wish? My fish you’ll recognize.)

Meet the maven of the mod: 

well-bread, world-wise wit Noel Cod.

Theda Barramundi’s error? 

Overdoing her mascara.

Mary Lamprey’s brother Charles: 

he helped her untie Shakespeare’s snarls.

Corbina Bernsen’s fatal flaw? 

His cry (“Fish Fry!”) on L.A. Law.

The Scotsman Edmund Halleybut? 

He claimed, “I comets tally, but…”

(CaNova, Judy? Fish folk? Sure, 

though most might now cut bait per her.)

     ("The More the Merrier") 

Joel McCrayfish plays the lead. 

Of DC lodging he has need.

Jean Garthur’s flat he would sublet. 

Alas! A tete-a-tete-a tete

ensues when Charles Cohoburn’s prying 

leads to “Bill”’s* arrest for spying.

“Moray the Merrier”’s a kick – 

though not a Prestiss Sturgeon flic.

     * Cohoburn’s character continually misidentifies 

McCrayfish’s character, regularly calling him Bill.

     ("Guys and Dolls") 

Detroit’s Miss Adelewife laments, 

“A poisson can develop cods.”

Her words are heard in “Gals and Gents” 

aka “Females, Fries and Scrods.”

And Damon Grunion’s uptown marks? 

But chum for Grunion’s downtown sharks.

Robin of Lox? The rich call it stealth. 

He gives to the poor. (Redistributed wealth?)

Celiakanth Cruz, Salsa Mater, 

sang before fish left the water.

Pesce, Joe? In Italy, 

he’s ‘Fish, Giuseppe,’ let’rally.

Abortion rights, as schooled fish know, 

were won by fish. (See “Wade v Roe.”)

(Your roe boasts fangs? Then I suppose he 

must be called Beluga Ghosi.)

“The girl…” -- I mean, “the fish next door” -- 

refers to Moray Tyler Moore.

McCalamari (first name? David): 

for a squid, quite well-behavéd.

Ringo Starrfish banged his drums 

in Liverpool’s aquariums.

“Among all porcine fish, he’s big.” 

(Discourse, of course, re Porgie Pig.)

He’s MVP come closeout games: 

who else but LeBronzino James!

She’s blonde of coif and blond of face 

and blonde of brain: meet Doris Dace.

In pools and pool halls, so state stats, 

he’s tops. He's Minnesota Sprats.

His ‘Sole’iness (that’s Francis, Pope): 

he’ll keep the oceans cool, we’ll hope.

Humphrey’s love was Bett Bacoral. 

All thought Bett “a pretty goral.”

Humph himself? He played the rogue: art-

houses shout, “Don’t miss TurBotgart!”

One filet be wa-a-a-a-ay too lean: 

it’s Mrs. Shrimpton’s daughter Jean.

Fish folk en France swim a la carte: 

(Napoleon Bonitoparte?)

To choc’lates, boxed, which we eat up, he 

likens life -- does Forrest Guppy.

“She’ll be apples! “ (Things are fine.) 

That’s Russell Croaker, spoutin’ Strine.

“…a doctor, not a saveloy,” 

shouts Star Trek medic “Bones” McKoi.

And what's BronZeno’s Paradox? 

A race between a pair of jocks.

Ira Gershfin’s coup de grace? 

To pen some words to Porgie and Bass.

If any fish can marry dark an’ 

light, Pierre Teilhard de Shark can.

Who’s seen swimming down the stream 

whilst lutenizing? Julian Bream.

You crave beluga caviar? 

You’ll slaver over Terry Gar.

D’ya dig this broadcast host’s aplomb? De-

clare, “I’m there for Coho Nnamdi.”

Fish turned philanthropic cove, he: 

Rock ‘n’ Rolldom’s Jon B’Anchovy.

“Booze won’t hurt. In fact, ‘twill hearten. 

Where’s the bar?” snorts Sardine Martin.

     ("Tom Sawyer" and Huckleberry Finn")

Twain’s a piscine catalogue: 

Tom Sawfish loves Aunt Pollywog.

One finds a Dolphin and a Duke. 

That Watson’s Jim survive’s a “fluke.”

Another Twain nomadic laddie: 

Huckleberry Finn ‘n’ Haddie.

As for Mark Twain’s alter egos: 

Samu’l Clamens goes where he goes.

Meet the Modern Jazz QuarTetra, 

playing Hal’but Hall etcet’ra.

“One might starve, were one to lack krill,” 

blurts a burly Bernie Mack’rel.

“Alewives eat their young.” Pure bollocks? 

Nope: a slur of Sidney Pollock’s.

Poster child fur Volk who’re vile? 

“Sieg Heil!” – Adolphin-Hitler-style.

Mein Fuhrerfish? Long dead and gone, 

as is his mistress, Eva Prawn.

One school of eels – including Seel, 

Greg van der Weel, Gibran, Khaleel,

and Paster Norman Vincent Peel – 

when jellied, makes a tasty meal.

Another school boasts Howard Keel, 

Sharque’eel O’Neel and Bradley Beel,

Patricia Neel and Brian Freel -- 

“suffish” for any angler’s creel.

(Though Eelvis Presley is an eel, 

to throw him back is no big deal.)

Or, grab your Old Bay and a fork! A 

fillet of Garcia l’Orca

hits the pan. (What’s on the grill? 

A bit of blackened Blenny Hill.)

Great logos don’t arrive en masse; 

they need design. (They need Saul Bass.)

Among Jurassic fish float four: 

there’s Watts-, Wood-, Keith- and Mickthy’saur.

(En arriere as “Mickth” blows harp? 

Terpsichorean Twyla Carp.)

“TV’s a wasteland!” Rin-tin-tin? No! 

Just a quote from Newton Minnow.

Ceta source which never fails? 

That’s Wiki-wizard Jimmy Whales.

[Failing to find puns for ‘perch,’ 

nor wishing to this verse besmirch,

I’d discontinued further search. 

Then took my bait did Thora Pirch.

Next, a fair, if falling, star: 

here’s Sonny’s chum cum child bride, Char.

Which fat fish swims the Rio Grande? O-

bese be fins of Marlin Brando.

Six-foot-six – one huge kahuna. 

Who but hoofer Tommy Tuna?

Dr. Seuss’s “One Fish Two Fish” 

pales near Jake and Elwood Bluefish.

Roles in “Cabaret” need nailing. 

“Emcee”’s one, so cast Joel Grayling!

Into tech, who took the plunge? 

One big one’s Eelon Muskellunge.

Which bro’s the BF Tintin had? Ach! 

Few as true as Captain Haddock.

(Schools of fish folk, by the way, 

team Aldo, Man and Martha Ray.)

Asked to i.d. baseball’s buddha, 

Yanks yell, “Yogi Berracuda!”

Myrna l’Oyster? Shucks! Long gone – 

though swimmin’ still be Walleye Shawn.

Through criminality’s “Who’s Who” 

floats Chinese villain Fumet Chu.

Who’d Gary Grouper teach to swim? 

(“Flash Gordon”’s Buster Crab taught him.)

Give, last, the Jesus fish a nod, 

aka “Ikthus/Son of Cod,”

which fish cries, “End thy pisces piece. 

My gospel’s “Catch, nor ne’er release.”

[I’d failed to further fish folk find 

when Salmon Rushdie rushed to mind.]

FIN

"'Tis far from few, requested to relate their fav'rite lark..." 26 Surrogate Snarks: A Constrained Nonsense Alphabet in Rhyme

‘Tis far from few, requested to
relate their fav’rite lark,

who’d favor us with answer thus: 
“Mine’s hunting of the snark.”

Which fool forgets the pains, the frets, 
the nearly fatal sally
he sweated besting, then arresting 
awful acephali? 

Who’d not profess what strain and stress 
(though 'fessing’s not his wish)
he’d spent exploring trenches for 
the beastly bishop-fish...

…and then forget the trebuchet – 
such weapons proving handy
when men march'd forth, a-heading north 
to catch the cru’l chromandi?

As young'un (three) -- too gung ho? Oui! -- 
I took it on the chin:
The Kids’ Krusade! (Mistakes were made 
when driving down the djinn.)

I’ve heard it said (or have I read) 
how famed the name of him who
with truncheon, skipped his luncheon, 
eagle eye peeled for edimmoux. 

Halt! Half a mo! Don’t laugh: I’ll show 
you trophies I take glory in:
I grabbed this thing while following 
the foul-mouthed fierce fomorian.

And, yes! It’s true: a jumping to 
conclusions flatly foregone
must ne’er be done if ever one 
goes gunning for the gorgon. 

The equine/lion/eagle scion: 
why should I care if
he’s ever found. (One hates to hound 
the harmless hippogriff.)

Nor shall I hide the imp inside 
(in fact, I lack the knack) --
for I’d so hate to immolate 
my inner ishigaq.

In odd Julys, I’d deputize 
nine gals and guys who’d gird
their rumps and tails, then dump in jails 
the joyless jubjub bird.

At ten and three, I went to sea, 
a Sinbad in the makin.’
A lad, a whelp, I planned, with help, 
to kill the kelp-clad kraken. 

So: here's the gist: my peers insist 
a posse be convened,
with one large rub: they look to club 
the luckless lubber fiend.

I bleat. I bray: “Flee, feet of clay! 
I’m not for playing god.
Still, sling’s the thing for mastering 
the murd’rous monopod.”

Your job, my liege? To lay the siege – 
an act oblige noblesse-y –
which spreads a toxin ‘neath these lochs, an-
noying noxious Nessie.

Egyptian priests disuss such beasts; 
Greek Plato joins their chorus.
Old Norse do, too (as we do…nu?). 
Let’s out the Ouroboros!

Fierce beasts I’ve bled – from none I’ve fled – 
down days since bread’s been sliced.
But, ‘pon my soul! My plumm’est role? 
Pursuit of poltergeist.

That God is great I’ll not negate; 
my dogmal slate is clean.
And still my quest’s to quash, sans rest, 
the Qabalah’s qareen.

Dad hunted gnu. Us kids did, too – 
like chips off olden blocks.
Those days are gone. Fresh crises spawn 
our raids upon the rocs.

I don’t know when, but soon I’ll pen, 
“I grabbed ten shen, then shook ‘em.”
Meantime, I’ll love a proxy of 
above: “I’m stalkin' skookum.”

I’ve punted foals. I’ve bunted dholes. 
I’ve junted moles down holes.
My latest role’s to set new goals – 
(say) tracking truant trolls.

I’m ever urgin’ ev’ry virgin: 
“Virtue must be earned.
Procure the horns off unicorns, 
nor leave no roans unturned.”

An opera done (a top-notch one) 
last season at La Scala
explored in song what all goes wrong 
when vanquishing vetala.

My friend Marat would bell a chat. 
He’ll wind up in the morgue:
I hear him raging, “Who’s for waging 
war upon the warg?”

I must now show restraint, although 
I fear I’ll go bananas
unless I shoot (read: ‘execute’) 
some xindhis or some xanas.

Alarms demand that arms be banned – 
brass knucks, nunchucks, machetes –
with which I’d deign to yank the chain 
of all remaining yetis.

Some beast you’d drub? Just grab a club 
(a niblick, spoon or mashie)
and zero in (to zap its chin) 
on zashiki-warashi.

As can be seen, there’s beasts – umpteen! – 
which prove as keen as snarks. 
As we disperse, let me be terse: 
Their bites? Worse than their barks!