Eggcentric Apple

Repost of a Newly Relevant Image

     NYT: Protests against the Thai government 

have gained momentum this summer.

    PlaysWell: Years ago, two friends of the blog

anticipated such goings on and preemptively 

reacted, each in his own way -- one paraphrasing

the American Declaration of Independence in a

Thai abugida (albeit with some unrequested 

redaction), the other electing to remain mum...

for the moment.

"Thai-Tongued...? Tongue-Tied...?"
chemical marker on copy paper
by Ulysses Poe

Four Variations on "Au Reservoir": a Reposting

"Four Variations on 'Au Reservoir':
'Hurray...Surf war!' 'Ol' Ray's sof'ware!'
'Oh! Razor wire!' and 'Haut Reyes Sere Fois'"
chemical marker on copy paper
by Ulysses Poe
 

A.A. Milne Meets E.C. Bentley or Passing the Torch: a Song

On Monday when the sun is hot
I wonder to myself a lot:
Now is it true or is it not
that times are ripe for cleriwhat…?
 
On Tuesday when it’s cooler, then
I find I feel the strangest yen
to take up quill or broad-nibb'd pen
and bang me out a cleriwhen.
 
On Wednesday when the weather’s fair,
I rise at dawn to take the air.
Then, later, in my Bardic chair,
I scribble down a cleriwhere
 
On Thursday when a cloud-chok'd sky
informs me winds and rains are nigh,
I hum an Erben lullaby --
or, maybe, draft a cleriwhy.
 
On Friday, skies are, once more, blue.
I down a pint – no more than two –
and think, my dearest dear, of you,
and write a nonsense cleriwho.
 
On Saturday (I see it now)
it’s time to take a final bow.
But just before I bid you “ciao!”
I craft a coda clerihow.
 
On Sunday, out has run my luck.
Re cler’whate’ers I fear I’m stuck.
Ta-dah! I hereby pass the buck:
YOU write a cleriWTF!

A Sextet of Cleriwhens

     Cleriwhens are much like clerihews but explicate periods 

rather than people, substituting chronology for biography.

As for cleriwhos, cleriwhats, cleriwheres and cleriwhys -- 

not to mention clerihows -- your guess is as good as ours. 

 

476:

Cor! Rome's in a fix:

Barbarians crash the gate. Bread and circuses pale.

(States fail: let's not pretend.)

A thousand-year empire -- the place wasn't built in a day -- 

fin'lly crawls to its end.

1066:

Harold would nix

the invasions of Tostig 

and Harald of Norway (“Hardrada’).

But William of Normandy whines, 

“To be King…? I’ve just gotta!”

1492:

Christopher cum crew

an ur-treacherous ocean, the icy Atlantic, 

with caravels triplex Chris cross’d,

where he found North America, 

this notwithstanding that no one’d reported it lost.

1776:

Militias of farmers and hicks

cry "Enough!" to the King of Great Britain 

and take on his troops.

Independence is won, though for white folks alone.

(Cf. DAR and sim'lar groups.) 

1984:

Eric Blair (George Or-

well) intro'd ' Big Brother,' 

'double-think' -- his novel help'd define

'em. (1984's the name: 

the book arrived in '49.)

2001: 

SF-ing fun

as apes learn from monoliths, 

HAL warbles "Daisy" and astronaut Kier

worries Earth from his translucent bubble. 

(Again, here, the name is a year.)

A Cleriwho's Who, the Religious Prophet Edition

"Oohlala Mandala"
chemical marker on copy paper,
digitally modified,
by Ulysses Poe

Siddhartha Gautama

leaves home, Pop and Mama.

Sid tries meditation, ascetic techniques,

then plops down ‘neath the Bodhi tree five or six weeks.

     Mary’s boy Jesus

keeps meat free from cheeses,

gets born in a barn (‘tweren’t no room at the inns),

and then's murder’d at Passover, lynch’d for your sins.

     Muhammad, a Meccan,

hears Gabriel beckon.

That angel says, “God’s Al-‘Ahad, Al-Wahid!”

thereby helping to jump-start Islam and its creed.

     Fred’s scion Don

works the art of the con,

claims, “I am The Chosen One.” Who made that choice…?

One political party who's “not very noice.”*

     * One mss, a late one, substitutes 

"A yahweheightless yahoo who's "not very noice."

A Spoonerful of Chuck

"C is for 'Computer,'
'Clinch,' 'Chuck' and
'Converge'"
chemical marker on
illustration board
by Ulysses Poe

Distance learning: Sign in, kids!

Your teacher's a computer screen.

List, tense Durning! Clinch your right fist!

Clinch your left! Now...lean, Chuck! Lean!

     Moral:

Tho' ev'rything that rises must converge,

some mornings, one just doesn't feel the urge.

The Trump/Biden Pre-Election Cognitive Test

      In the interests of a free and fair election, 

both candidates are referenced by name in the 

body of the text, Mr. Biden in the thirteenth 

line, Mr. Trump several lines thereafter, their

positions in the poem, their height or depth, 

reflective of their current positions, high or

low, in a cross section of polls.

Ring-ding-a-ding! So: if one would be King,

     of the

things one must do, what’s the very first thing…?

     To sing,

“Ab-ra-ca-dab! Badda bing, badda boom!

     Cu-cu-

ru-cu-cu-ru! Ding-dong-ding, ding-dong-doom!

     Eenie-

meen, eenie-mine! Fiddle-diddle-dee-dee!

     Ga-ga-

ga-ram ma-sa-la! Hee-haw! Ho! Haw-hee!

     In-a-

gadda-da-veed! Ja-da-Joe-ja-da-jing!

     Kan-kee-

kee! Kama-sutra! La-dah-doo-dah-ding!

     Ma-ma-

mi-a! Na-nu! Ob-la-di! Ob-la-Don!

     Pa-pa-

raz-zi! Quee-queg! Ra-ma-la-ma! Soup-çon!   

     Tra-la-

la! Ubu Roi! Va-va-va-va-va-voom!

     Whack-a-

mole! Xa-na-doo! Yip-pee! Zizz-zizz-i-zoom!”

     Having

sung the above, what’s the second-most thing…?

    One must

sing it all…backwards – IF one would be King.

Light Rhyme Late on a Last Day

     You learn your lines, you hit your mark, 

you say your lines. Tomorrow...? Dark!

Your measur'd words "of wine and roses"...? 

Bullshit! Life's a blot. 

You aren't. Then, for awhile, you are.

Then you're -- forever -- not.

     Your rhymes oblique, "when lilacs last"...? 

Baloney! You've one shot.

You aren't. Then, for awhile, you are.

The rest of time you're not.

     Your Golden Rule...? You're April's Fool!

Your mankind...? Not so hot.

You aren't. Then, for awhile, you are.

The rest is not worth squat.

     To death from birth: the lot's not worth

a tittle -- less a jot.

You aren't. Then, for awhile, you are.

So...? Shut up! Hit your spot!

Baby On BOR: a Cautionary Nonsense Verse Narrative in a Nonsense Election Year

     The poet elects not to include "Baby on Boire" or "Baby on Boyer"

in his petite suite. The editors applaud his circumspection.

My infant son, Uly Poe, Jr.,*

squats atop (An)Drew Ackerman’s head.**

(An occurrence of “Baby on Bore”...?

What's the hour...? Why’s the lad not in bed…?)

     * No relation to the Oulipo is herein suggested

or implied. 

     ** Drew Ackerman, reputedly the most boring

man in the world, hosts the podcast Sleep With Me.

My young man now's abandoning Drew,

le conducteur française his new mount.

(Sacre bleu! C'est une "Baby on Bour."*

His naif please take into account.)

     * French chef d'orchestre Justin Bour.

Zounds! He’s mounted a dead Afrikaner.*

He has clamber'd up Koos de la Rey.*

(An example of “Baby on Boer...?”

Careful, cher! Don’t get carried away!)

     * Famous South African military man.

Damn! That boy's left behind ol' man Koos

for the young Danish physicist Niels.

(What we have here is "Baby on Bohr."

I can only guess how Junior feels.)

 

What rough beast…? Junior’s boarded its back,

as his fingers bleed, clutching its ear.

(Can it be we see “Baby on Boar”...?

That he fails to stay on's my worst fear.)

 

Now dismounted, he's found a new nag,

sporting gold mane 'n' tangerine skin.

(Mush! He ushers in “Baby on Boor.”

Watch out, young 'un! Who knows where it’s been...?)

"B is for 'Broken'"
chemical marker on copy paper,
digitally modified,
by Ulysses Poe, Sr.

Resist! For Reni, Jack and Carl (RIP)

     J. Kerouac's "Pull my daisy..." appears to prefigure 

U. Poe's "...pant your piece...." Defend or disparage...or both.

To you whose spiel'd eclipse the sage...?

Come, post your paw print 'pon the page!

To you who’d preçis joy and grief...?

Come, limn your lines along the leaf!

To you who’d Cuisinart the crown...?

Come, grave your ground – here verb, there noun!

Like Jack insists in Enter Laughing,*

“Always – always! – write it down!”

 

To you who’d peace talk underpin...?

Come, score your scrawl upside a skin!

To you who’d ‘gainst the racists stand...?

Come, stamp your sign across the sand!

To you who’d mum a monster’s maw...?

At Potus pant your piece -- comme ça:

“It’s up to you to Ha-cha-cha..."

as Jack* to Ren* enjoy'd to jaw.

     * In Carl Reiner's semi-autobiographical 

novel Enter Laughing, Jack Gilford plays protagonist 

David Kolowitz's employer Mr. Forman. Delivery 

boy David is portrayed by the wonderful Reni Santoni,

who died earlier this week.