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Tuesday, July 2, 2024

Selfie Sketchbook: Terrorism Takes A Pair Of Poses


The Domestic Terrorism Cellfie 

     Pose One
 
We're white, supreme...the Master Race,
'n' foreign-born but fer God's grace.
Ya'll girlie girls best learn yer place.
(Does tinfoil headgear spoil my face....?)
   We're proud. We're loud. We're MAGA's base.
We march the Mall, spray ya'll with mace...
though White House docs Drumpf does misplace
'n' tyrants' rants Drumpf does embrace.
(My cap is made of foil 'n' lace.)
   We synagogues 'n' mosques deface. 
Us dudes das Juden won't replace.
That Holocaust did not take place.
(My tinfoil hat glean'd that from space.) 

     Pose Two
 
   To Pence 'n' Nancy we give chase.
We'd hang 'em both to make our case
for burnin' down this frickin' place.
(My tinfoil tam scans scams from space.)
   While climate change will us outpace,
asylum seekin' we'll erase.
Our cons to Don will throw each race. 
With Dems we'll never interface.
(My hat of tin tunes din to space.)
   Of shame we show no hint nor trace. 
We'll not stand down; we'll not lose face. 
(My tin-foil cap maps raps from space. 
We pack AK-s, though, just in case.)

Selfie Sketchbook: Peter...

 










Pete Pumpkineater's Pumpkin Shellfie

Our Peter a dilemma's got:
his strife 'n' trouble* nags...a lot.
(Plus, who's that squash what crash'd Pete's shot...?)
     *'Trouble-'n'-strife' is 
Cockney rhyming slang for 'wife.'

Monday, July 1, 2024

Selfie Sketchbook: Bethle'm...












The Bethle'm Boychik's First Noëlfie

A swaddl'd Savior squats in straw
and Virgin Mary's womb's still raw,
while Joseph muses, "Who's his Paw...?" 

Selfie Sketchbook: Southerm...











The Dixie Lost Cause Rebel Yellfie

"Uncle!" mutters Robert E.
while Sherman utters, "To the sea!"
and Johnny stutters, "Yee-haw-yee-e-e-ee!" 

Selfie Sketchbook: Rossini...


 






The G. Rossini's William Tellfie

Pomme-topp'd Junior bears his task.
Kemo sabe wears a mask.
(Where his sidekick stares...? Don't ask.)

Sunday, June 30, 2024

A Shelfful O' Selfies

The Shallow Continental Shelffie 
The Papal-States-Supporting Guelphie
The "We All Live In Rivendell"fie
The Jacques Brel Is Alive 'N' Wellfie
The Fennel Farmers In The Dellfie
The Dreamt In Marble Halls We'd Dwellfie
The Me 'N' Stupid (With Adele)fie
The Broadway's Katherine Cornellfie
The Doe-Eyed Soemmerring's Gazellefie 
The "Flag Pin Pinn'd On My Lapel"fie 
The Donald Wins A Fake Nobelfie

     (images and rhyming triplets to come: 
a work in progress)


Saturday, June 29, 2024

Selfie Sketchbook: Cocteau...

 


The Jean Cocteau "Le Bête e' Bellefie"

Jean remarks, "We're not alone."
Josette barks, "Bête's done ete my phone."
(Marais's performance...? Overblown.)

Thursday, June 27, 2024

A Selfie Sketchbook Hierarchy

Their Lost Cause Rebel Yellfie
quells our Wicked Witch's Spellfie, 
my Anti-personnelfie 
and your Norman Bates Motelfie. 
   Their Solid Xerogelfie
(as it flaunts its daunting smellfie)
fells our Dhammazedi Bellfie
and Rossini's William Tellfie.
   Their Celtic Clootie Wellfie,
which dispells my Asphodelfie
and your Seventh Ring Of Hellfie,
pelts S. Claus's Fav'rite Elfie.
   Their Columbian Cartelfie,
with your So Long, Fare Thee Wellfie
and my Third-Grade Show-'n'-Tellfie:
not a one's "just one more selfie." 

Wednesday, June 26, 2024

The Harrowing Of Heaven

      Canto I 

   Last 
Friday night, late, I slipp'd 
right off the plate, kick'd the 
bucket. gave up the 
ghost, 
   came to 
ultimate harm, bought (and 
paid for) the farm. I (and 
let me speak frankly) was 
toast.
   Drank I 
deep from Doom's cup, beds of 
daisies push'd up, had my 
ticket punch'd, caught the last 
ride; 
     met the 
Reaper (he's grim), bit the 
Big Galbijjimwith the 
fishes slept. (Bluntly: 
died.)
   To in-
visible choirs I ap-
pended my lyres; kick'd the 
can (sadly, not down the 
road); 
     met my 
end, popp'd my clogs; went whole-
hog! to the dogs, crossing 
o'er to no mortal a-
bode.
   Call my 
trip what you will: the Big 
Sleep, the Big Chill, that I 
pass'd to some vast other 
side, 
     cash'd in 
chips, bit the dust -- R.I.-
P.'d if you must. But, while 
nixing to shout it or 
flout it or tout it, there's 
nowt doubt about it: 
died. 

      Canto II 

     Dapper 
Dante of yore...? He faced 
gauntlets galore. Me...? 
can't declare I did as 
well:
     I was 
neither urn-buried nor 
quite Aligh'eri'd; 'tis 
clear I veer'd nowhere near 
Hell.
    Virgil...? 
Never turn'd up. Were I 
on my own...? Yup! (Them three
hell-creatures never show'd, 
neether. 
     BF-
(Bonne Femme Bea)...? She, too, 
made no appea-. Lo, to 
tell you the truth (though it 
smells less than couth), their A-
WOLism 'queath'd me a 
breather. 

     Canto III
 

     (to be continued)

Litany Chanted Over Schrödinger's Box

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