"All its cockles and mussels..." Complexity

All its cockles and mussels and oysters and clams,
all its marmalades, lemon curds, jellies and jams,
all its levees and breakwaters, ditches and dams
crowd the cosmos and leave it complex.

With its Myanmars and Monacos, Spains and Siams,
with its buggies and carriages, strollers and prams,
with its swearings and oaths, with its curses and "Damn!"s,
it's profound -- in a mound of respects.

All its ounces and carats, its grains and its grams,
all its misters and missuses, sirs and mesdames,
all its Maxes and Morties, its Sids and its Sams...
beg a Q&A, "What in heck’s nex'?"

With its aunties and uncles, its grampas and grams,
with its briskets and pot roasts, its veal joints and hams,
with its puppies and ponies and kittens and lambs,
how's it manage to salvage the wrecks?

All its bunkos and frauds, all its shakedowns and scams, 
all its streetcars and gondolas, trolleys and trams, 
all its "Cheerio!"s, "Ciao!"s, "So long, Sammy!"s and "Scram!"s
tend to press one to Windex one's specs.

With its midterms and quizzes and final exams,
with its tubers and 'taters, its spuds and its yams, 
with its beanies and bonnets, its top hats and tams...
what comes next? Abrogation of sex? 

All its Tinas and Trishas, its Pollys and Pams, 
all its 'were's and 'once was'es, its 'is'es and 'am's, 
all its "Splooge!"s and "Fwap!"s, its "Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am!"s
leave space curved – both concave and convex! 

With its cookies and crackers, its melbas and grahams,
with its lintels and lock rails, its joists and its jambs,  
with its potted meats, jerkys, Tofurkys and Spams,
'tis enough to kerfuff’ all call’d X!

Qs&Ws

Do winners never quit? Don't quitters ever win?
If winners split, be they for shit, however it they spin?

Does Damon Runyon run? Does Grover Cleveland cleave?
Do Brother Ray scoot t'other way? (Now that I can't believe.)

Is Count D counted out? Does Dolly D depart?
(Though Elvis P turn'd in his key, the King still lives! Take heart!)

Wins Walken when he walks? Quits Hoffman, taking off?
If splits Stallone, d'we Sly disown? (And what's with Hasselhoff?)

Does Chairman Mao bow out? Does Eastwood exit east,
Does either guy receive a bye? (A raincheck chit at least...?)

Does Tim McGraw withdraw? Does Patsy Cline resign?
Does Fielding yield, then leave the field not giving us some sign?

Do guys apostasize? Do labmates abdicate?
Do you suppose aides "Aedeeoze!"? Do hacks evacuate?

Does Anne* abandon ship? Gives in Anais Nin?
Aeneas...quitter? Not one whit. (Herr Adolf may 'ave been.) 
     * Diarist Frank 

Does Bonaparte retreat? Does Glenn Close close the book?
When fops drop out, point out the lout and I'll deploy the hook. 

(More Qs and Ws to come: a work in progress)

Holiday Botchulits or Xmas in June

Familiar lines of holiday verse followed by anagrams of those lines and one-line wrap-ups.

I’m dreaming of a white Christmas.

I can’t wait here for dim Ms. Gish, Ma...
...'cuz she and that equally dim sister of hers dream only of a dusty Christmas, don't they...? 

Jingle bells, jingle bells.
Jill’s been selling LBJ gel.
“Thank you, Jillian, dear. The dry ol’ coot could surely use a little,” opines Lady Bird.

Once in royal David’s city

a very nosy old (CCII AD) nit…
…finally up ‘n’ died. (Centuries ago those OT types did live for donkey’s years, didn’t they...?)

I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus.

Nick’s a slimy gin sot, Mama -- a wuss!
Thus I’m leaving home for good…right after the exchange of gifts and the airing of grievances.

‘Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house,

when Father’s big car met its host, he won the URL “Hugo’s Health.”
This year, apparently, Santa’s gifting every mother’s child exactly what it’s always wanted.

Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer.

In our “Dr. Loser Dept.,” he’d need her…
…‘her’ referring, of course, to Mrs. Claus, the former RN who’s long served in that capacity there at the Pole.

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire.

I cannot spit on so fresh a green nut.
(In any case one would think that on Xmas Eve a body could find better things to do.)

Silver bells. Silver bells. It’s Christmas time in the city.

Still, the scary birthers’ cells I’m visitin’ smell best. I’ve…
…looked pretty thoroughly into this holiday sense obsession of mine but have yet to discover any plausible explanation. In the meantime, seasons’ greetings!

Dervishish (Or, as friend-of-the-blog JC's Brooklyn dad used to teach the youngsters: "Ersters'll sperl if ya berl 'em in erl.")

Ur's santurs skirl. One chap (no churl: friends call 'im Burl, the Earl of Twirl) dons skirts o' pearl. Tight folds unfurl to form a curl. Burl twirls; skirts swirl. (‘Twere me...? I’d hurl.)

“’Tis but,” says Merlin, ”psycho-neur’l.” Still, dervish, whirlin' gets the girl -- not urban: rur'l! From Russia (Ur'l)... a gal call'd Shirl. (This blather...? As per Lawrence Durr'll.)

New Prosopogostichs: Lenny Bruce

Not unpleasant to know…? Mr. 
Bruce,
one whose humor’s been label'd ab-
struse.
True: Len's gambols weren’t no Mother 
Goose
and Len struggled with substance a-
buse.
Yet the fallout from Lenny’s pro-
fuse:
Robin, Richard and George* siphon'd
juice
from the pleasant-to-know Mr. 
Bruce.
Of comedians, Lenny's the 
Zeus.
     * Williams, Pryor and Carlin et al.

"Mondo Cane" Reimagined or 'God's to 'Dog's: an Open-ended Series of Fifteen (so far) "Gott zu Spot" Distichs in Doggerel from GFH and UXP

When 'god's become 'dog's, our world does a one-eighty-one.

When gods turn dogs (those words, I mean), folks spot strange stuff they've never seen,
hear high-pitch'd "r-r-ruff!" once shelv'd between repugnant and downright obscene.

     Dogiva...? She's no lady, sir, tho' hounds regard the bitch demure,
despite her showing all that fur. A "show" dog...? Sure. (But still a cur.)

     Most fear Charybdis, shy at Scylla, shrink from Kong -- that whole megillah.
Blanch they, but,* before Dogzilla? Nossir! Not one slim scintilla.
     * The phrase-ending 'but' suggests this exception is spoken by a northern UK speaker -- 
or perhaps one hailing from Ireland or Australia.

     Reading wunderkind Kurt Dögel, grey cells (mine) begin to gurgle:
"Might I, if Kurt's work I'd burgle, in short order square the cirgle...?"

     Two on stage (where...? I dunno): twin ev'rymen await Dogot.
Will Didi stay? Will Gogo blow? (Dogot does, subsequently, show.)

     Arthur Dogfrey pours out tea. (One lump or two...? The biscuit's free.) 
His lapdog rep...? Hyperbole: those barks 'n' bites suck equally.

     Dogwarts founder Gryffindor -- first name o' Dogric (less or more) --
sows sorcery 'n' swords galore. (That mutt has much to answer for.)

     "Dogspell" fails to win the Tony. "Annie" wins. The ceremony
spawns, in Sandy,* acrimony. (Verse like this...? Show-biz baloney.)
     * Annie's canine companion and costar isn't even nominated.

     Chihuahuas touring Chichen Itza, Balkan Hounds from Srebrenica,
Spot, Duke, Fido...no dog eats a taco from Dogfather's Pizza.

     Srebrenica (see above), a spot where dognosc's spoken of:
8,000 pups the final shove are dealt. Tough luck...? (It ain't tough love.)

     From Queen Lucia’s motor-car, the French New Wave’s Jean-Luc Dogard
burlesques Miss Mapp’s “Au reservoir!” – or so airs dogged NPR.

     Harold Dogwinson's fraught flight to Hastings -- although not too bright --
still wins the day, so that this knight is afterwards "the Conquer'r" hight.
          
     Robert Doggard's daedal dearth rocketry aborts at birth.
Astronauts -- for what it's worth -- can't "slip the surly bonds of earth."

     Professor Dogbole barks lore. No “man’s best friend,” he lacks rapport,
this friend of Forster’s from Lahore who’s not heard barking, “Mrs. Moore!”

     Behold! The pets of epigram! The pooch whose puppy's call'd "The Lamb."
The mutt who barks, "I Am Who Am." The dog of Abraham...
                                                                                         Dogdamn!

(Future “‘god’s to ‘dog’s” candidates: an open-ended work in progress)

The Thankless Dead’s Keith Dogchaux

Krafty Food's Green Dogdess: salad dressing or mouthwash?
dogman:  a type of untouchable in India

The Friends of Friday Spast

Console poor Monday Noone -- so-o-o-o overweight.
Meet Tuesday Brighton-Hurley, fashion plate.
Shun Wednesday Weecke: her lovers she devours,
as does seductress Thursday Haft ter Howers.
Say "hey!" to woman’s libber Friday Knight
and Saturday Moore-Ning, hermaphrodite.
Each gal you greet’s a friend of Friday Spast.
including Sunday Brunche. ‘Tis quite the cast!

(Other friends of Ms. Spast. Their verses are in progress) 

Monday Blaahz
Tuesday “Eve” Ning
Wednesday Sawph
Thursday Dawne 
Friday Phorte-Knight
Saturday Haft-Daye
Sunday Sirvisses

Monday Sleplayte
Tuesday "Happy" Hauer
Wednesday Sayle-Zeevent
Thursday Sklosed
Friday Prerz
Saturday Danse
Sunday Skule 

ZweiOdes

As you haul coals to Newcastle, 
might you, por moi,
amass aardvarks to sell
in Abel-Beth-Maacah? * 

     * Biblical authors write of a wise woman

who once dwelt there but make no mention
of a live animal market. 

Be she t(hr)ower of babble? 
Blame (blush) my bum habit,
my culpa! But...Abbie Boudreau’s
been a babbit!”

Cor! Here's Jorge Luis Borges!
Cor de l'Argentine eez Jor: "Heez
accidence enhances stories
cached een Chechen Cacci'tores!"

When AM added Daddy-O,*
dark DJ, to my rahdio,
they proved: extending feelers
can yield real emcees, not spielers.
     * Chicago radio personality Holmes Daylie

Affairs of the fart
felt in far-off terrains
risk ripe redolence. (And 
barely visible stains.)

Giggl’ing, one Googles
“three gaggles o' geese,”
crying, "Larry* and Sergey:* 
please leave me in peace!"
      * Page and Brin, founders of Google 

‘High-hat,’ ‘high-hand,’ 
‘high-horse,’ ‘high holy days...’
'high-'…HAH! (A case of
“damn’d with freighted phrase.”)

Invoking my μους-, I (non-
Greek) sue for news: “Ανδρα
μαλαπολλ' εννεπα
μοι…”
Show Achilles? No! Showies and 
tellies show Hellene Elle 
Ilii* (Helen of
Troy).
     * Genitive singular of 'Ilium.' 

My menage during haj 
during Raj (just for fun)
stanch’d my stutter.
Of "...jej-jej...jej-june..." they heard none.

Don’t vote to tax
Nicola’s Delft or Spode.
Just kick Nic’s knickknacks' taxes 
down the road.

     A-
board the good ship 
Lollypop, life's good, 
though sacch'rin smarm's the 
stuff of songs of Shirl's.) 
     Still, 
suckers: stop! Please 
cease the siphonhood! 
Such sucking saps o-
bese, balloon-shaped girls.

Your pharaoh dies,
befriends my goat –
the pair grows fairly chummy.
Then Nurse and Momma
shoot this film:
"The Nanny Meeps The Mummy."

A Fool shall not
for Mongoose vouch,
but Cobra choose. 
How odd. How...OUCH!

Dr...Sergeant...chili...pot:
Stop! Put in more 'pepper'...Not!

     Quick! Go
east on that Qarghaliq-
Qaraqum Trail: get good
Bar-B-Q Coq...and great
Bar-B-Q Quail,
     * The direction travelled -- ENE, roughly -- 
between these Asian cuisine hotspots.

I.S.O. road or
driveway warrior?
Better call 
the Brothers Boyer!*
     * Junior relations of the author

All at sea in Seas Sargasso,
sailors may request a lasso.
Sassafras's gas shall pass,
but schlusselfiedels?* "Such a ass!" ** 
     * Kinds of hurdy-gurdy    **Pace, Mr. Dickens

Kitt's kit? That pattern’s
known as tattersall.
But I’ve left torn Kitt's 
knit togs – tatters, all.

     I'd
figured I'd bagg’d me a
gnu, up until 
     I'd looked
under the fur and found 
you, Uncle Phil!

"Vav-vav-...vav...a vav-...va-v-...vavoom!"
(I hear a stutter! But from whom?
It’s Dona D-cup, I presume –
she of the fabulous ba-zoom.)

Who? Woodrow Wilson's widow.
Where? Near Wicklow West. What? Dead.
Now...when? Clews found suggest 'twas Sunday... 
who knows why! How? Bled.

     Mix xan-
thoma with rosacea: the re-
sulting skin disease
     is what, when 
six xiphopagi repaint the
xerox room, one sees.

To marry your mother 
so many years back?
My mistake (don't talk back!) 
Blame my yackety yak!

They sang "Zizzi-zizzi-...!" yesterday, 
sang "...boom-boom-aay!" today.
What shall zyzzogetons* sing tomorrow? 
Difficult to say.
        * The very last word -- in South American leaf hoppers 
and in my pocket dictionary.

Dyadyssey Book 2 1/2

With an A/B, who's to say be-
ret'd artistes won't make a baby? 

With a C/D, yes indeedy! 
We shall catch a cold. We’re speedy.  

With an E/F, even we -- deaf! --
dare we not erect a G-clef? 

With a G/H, waving fee, wage
and expense, we'll twirl a tach gauge.  

With an I/J, we'll oblige (say) 
Raul Castro to chirp, "Hi, Che!"*

With a K/L, if we say, "Well... 
no can do!" there'll be, to pay, hell.

With an M/N, men from Bremen 
and good luck, we'll launch a lemon.  

We'll, with O/P (though with no pi-
ranhas), craft kachinas (Hopi).  

With a Q/R, seven who are 
skill’d can blow a "vaquum" Dewar. 

With an S/T, we'll not rest. (He 
who might thwart us? Wa-a-ay too chesty.) 

With a U/V -- ain't it groovy? –
we should shoot a silent "mouvie." 

Double U/X…? Single U/X…?
“Second’s best,” notes Ernest Truex.' 

Last, with Y/Z, something spicy.
Backwards zoos! (Though zoos prove pricey.)  

New Prosopogostichs: Herbert Crowley

Not unpleasant to know...? Mr. Crowley.* 
Not an artist to toss in the towel. He,
I'll be bound, seems well-rounded, less jowly
than stout Sino-Vietnamese Hao, Li.**
Often diss'd by harsh critics most foully
(pann'd one pundit, "Ol' Herb's a tad owly...")
is the pleasant-to-know Herbert Crowley,
who, I swan, prompts this connoisseur's howl: "Ee-ee-ee-ee…"
     * Search online for Herbert in conjunction with his Wiggle-Much (pardon the expression). You won't be disappointed. 
     ** 'Hao' is a Vietnamese word for 'good.' Li is the second most popular surname in China. Of course, Hao would ordinarily be referred to as Li Hao but hey...who's list'nin'...? (Or listin' for that matter.)