Q&A&A: an ABC (Walrus)

A new abecedarial nonsense whose stanzas 

channel those of Carroll's The Mad Gardener's Song.

Might A be Anna's arabesque
augmenting half Alf's partners desk…?
No, A be Alfie's amphigory
airbrushed in Ann's lavatory.
(Also -- viewed through Pink's pink prism –
A's an Attic witticism.)
 
Might B be Baby's badinage
begun while boxing Bubb's corsage…?
No, B be Bubba's balderdash
begat while brushing Babe's mustache...
unless B's baked in Boursin cheese:
in that case, B’s a bald betise.

Might C be Caesar's* calembours
contrived behind closed cellar doors…?
No, C be Coca's** coups de plume
concocted in Sid's coke-filled room,
except when cow'ring in Sid's ditch:
in that case, C's a carrawitch.
 
     * Sid   ** Imogene

Might D be Dodgson's* dunciad
discovered in some deacon's pad…?
No, D be D'Indy's doubl'-entente
delivered dans Drood's Restaurant,
unless D's deemed cajolery:
in that case D's (duh!) drollery.
 
     * Charles Lutwidge Dodgson
 
Might E be Edward's escapades
engaged in with three upstairs maids…?
No, E be Eddie's equivokes,
whose end line rhymes, "Dos Eq’-, Joe Doakes!"
Unless at eight pence to the pound
E's priced. Then, E's an empty sound.

If F's for Fifi's foolishness
fomented from Flo's olive press,
F's not, then, for her flummeries
(film footage offers summaries),
unless said film be conterfeit:
in that case, F's a flash of wit.

Might G be "Godot"'s gobbl'ygook
grok'd graven in God's grading book…?
No, G be Garbo's "gallicisms"
(Greta's anti-Semitisms...(?)).
Garnering gefiltefish, 
this G's Ed Gorey's gibberish.
 
Might H be Hugh's hyperbole
hatched mute -- i.e., nonverbally…?
Oh, no, H be Hef's hebetude –
what attitude! -- his hips half nude,
unless Hef's Hoovers halt their raids.
Then, H be Hefner's harl'quinades.

Might I be Idi's "idi-"'-cies
inflicted on Ike's tse-tse’s bees…?
No, I be Ireland's Irish bulls –
in Innishfree, they’ve firkinfuls;
still, inside Iceland's bourgeoisie,
there I's an imbecility.

Might J be Jean-Jacques' jabberwockies
jotted down while sipping sakes…?
No, J's Joseph's jeu d'esprit –
jejune, like J. J.'s jamboree,
unless Joe's jokes be quid pro quo.
Then, J's jests…? Just junk jeu de mots.
 
Might K be Keith's kid's kakapoo
as squawk'd (hawk'd...?) thru Ken's bass kazoo...?
No, K be "Krazee Kinkajou," that
kids'-show host (KQFU).
And what if K. K. -- kidnapp'd -- dies...?
Then, K be Krazee's kaddish, guys.

Might L be Lisle's light levity
colinking length with brevity...?
No, L be Lulu's lunacy
(illegal in Altoona, si...?)
...unless that L will prove legit:
in that case, L's your lack o' wit.

M maybe mimics merriments
made up by Mali's malcontents...?
Mais non, M's Mommie's mots pour rire
(though neither's music to mine ear),
unless Mom's 'nom de mime' be "Mick."
In that case, M's Ma's monkey trick.
 
Might N be Norns' nugacity
nuancing Butch (bitch!) Cassidy...?
No, N's a nugae canorae
announced when 'noshing rhubarb pie,
though not when watching "Frasier," see...?
Then, N is Niles' niaiserie.

Ought O be even oddities
occurring in these ABCs...?
No, O's for one obscurum per
obscurius (one can but stare).
(Throughout Ontario today,
though, Os be for our oui dires, eh...?

Might P be peoples' poppy-cock
(pronounced as "ph'ah'q" in Languedoc)...?
Nope, P be Popi's persiflage
performed while "perping" Pip's "massage,"
unless Pop's prattle's rife with surds.
Then, P's a pun -- a play on words.
 
Might Q be Queequeg's quid pro quo...?
(I'd quite concur if Q said, "No.")
"No, Q be quite the quiddity,"
quoth thou, with queer acidity,
"...unless said quipper fires point-blank.
Then, Q's Quixote's quip 'n' crank."

Are Rs for Ryder's raillery
recounted 'round Red's Whalery...?
No, R's for Ringo's repartee.
His "co-Starr" (retrogressively)
be Belle: Rick's arse feels "rather droll."
(Perhaps his R's for rigmarole.)

Is (was...?) Ms. Suze's silliness
subscribed to sporting fancy dress...?
No, S is Stu's stultiloquence
suggested o'er Soc's stockade fence...
'cept Sunday week: 'Tis Hallowmas!
Then, S shows Salman's sounding brass.
 
Might T be Trigve's thing'majig
translated whilst Trot trims Trig's wig...?
Not! T be Trot's tomfoolery.
(Trot tripp'd whilst thieving jewelry.)
And if the true thief's less than nimble,
this T's, then, for tinkling cymbal.
 
Might U be your ultravagance
unleashed while mugging nonchalance...?
No, U be unintelligence
unurn’d while burning frankincense...
unless you misquote Watson-Crick:
then, U's an urban ledjend (sic).

Might V be Vernon's verbal quirks...?
(He visits 'em on var'ous jerks.)
Vay, no: V's vox et praet'rae ni'l,
voiced softly, 'neath Vin's windowsill.
We've felt, however, V's vibrations.
So-o-o-o...V be vermiculations.
 
Why's W a waggishness
express'd whilst weeding watercress
when W's more witticism...?
(Mum's the word: no criticism!).
Yet, when whale oil warms Wim's dim sum,
W'd be want o' wisdom.

Might X be texts --"Xanthippe's Tirades,"
ex. grat. -- penn'd by Marxist mermaids...?
Nope, X be xylarity
(though, spelt with 'x,' a rarity)...
unless said X relaxes us:
then, X be my xyphopagus.

Might Y be all that yettering
you've vetted at Sloan-Kettering...?
Yes...No! Y be your yap 'n' yammer
yell'd while editing my grammar.
Yet, if you don't give a darn,
in that case, Y's a navvy's yarn.
 
Might Z be zazen zanyism
zoned to hone post-modernism...?
No way! Z's Zeke's slow-paced zizz
(though paradox Zeke's zephyr is).
If those zeds bring semantic fits,
then (Zounds!)...this Z's for Zasu Pitts!

(Mini-)Portrait of (Uly) Poe (Unpub)

Less than 

master,
less than 

poet.
Poet-

aster…?
Don’t you 

know it!

Parallel Universes (Unpub)

     To grasp Ravel, 

she drills like hell. 

She "l'Oye, Ma... 

     Mere" is learning.

     Typography...? 

She knows what's key:

Each letter...

     pair she's kerning.

     ‘Tis true that Cher's 

ditch’d Sonny. Where's 

it writ whom…
     Cher’s now spurning…?

     Friend Kier reveres 

Three Musketeers:
for Dumas,… 
     pere, he's yearning.

     Pea Green Anjou's 

have turn’d to blues.
Don't stare: each…
     pear is turning!

     How much seems right 

to mind my mite…?
Francs our au…
     pair is earning.

     'Mongst actors, which 

named Charles is rich...?
A billion-…
     -aire is Durning.

     Der Fuhrer calls 

von Choltitz, bawls: 

"Mein Herr, is…
     Paris burning…?"

Semordnilap Spelt Backwards (Unpub)

Less mal must tomes
of palindromes
be coupl’d with than cobia.
Remember:
‘aibohphobia’’s still,
backwards, ‘aibohphobia.’
 
Some stock (bouillon)
does Godfrey spawn
without a bouillon cube.
From shocks of flocs
he stock concocts. (And,
backwards, ‘boob’s still ‘boob.’)
 
How scoundrels skulk
behind the stars ‘n’ 

stripes one can’t forgive. Ick!
They’re sunshine soldiers.
‘Civic’'s, though,
both back- and forwards, ‘civic.’
 
“We are as gods
and might as well get
good at it,” Brand cried.
Forgets does Stu that
‘deified’’s still, 

backwards, ‘deified’...?
 
One pyramid reads,
“M  D  C  C…
L  X  X  V  I.”
Atop sits one
omniscient orb: ‘eye,’
backwards-spelt, is ‘eye.’
 
To don one’s truss…?
Innocuous,
but never eejit-proof.
Remember:
Is not ‘foolaloof,’ spelt
backwards, ‘foolaloof’…?
 
To lay down tracks
on discs of wax
we blow our axes, dig…?
And, through it all,
we all recall,
how ‘gig’’s still, backwards, ‘gig.’
 
Soon, dialogues
in synagogues
from Wien to Walla Walla
shall argue this
hypothesis: “Claim:
backwards, ‘hallah’’s ‘hallah.’"
 
When pollsters bang,
do I harangue…?
Do I unleash my id…? I
do not. I sigh, 

“’I did, did I…?’ is, 

backwards, ‘I did, did I…?’”
 
Ten grand, by gum,
is quite some sum:
it’s air fare for my hajj.
And yet, reversed,
‘jaravaraj’ remains
‘jaravaraj.’
 
Objets which float –
canoe, toy boat,
ark, raft – all craft which sway –
read diff’rent each 

direction. (‘Kayak’s 

‘kayak’ either way.)
 
You’re such a devil!
As you revel,
handling your bevel,
you’re less inclined,
perhaps, to mind
that ‘level’’s, backwards, ‘level.’
 
With push turns shove.
reserve your love
for women of the night.
Remember: ‘madam’’s ‘madam,’
right to left…
or left to right.
 
Our father’s glib.
Pa’s quick to fib
or croon a ribald tune.
As Daddy’s sons,
we run to puns
like “’noon,’ half spun, spells ‘noon.’”
 
Slim, Morag, Nessie,
Mussie, Cressie:
beasts unparallel’d.
Worse, ‘Ogopogo’’s
‘Ogopogo,’
either way (s)he’s spelled.
 
Don’t tell me you
don’t smell it. Whew!
The toilet’s overflowing.
No matter how you
spell it, ‘poop’’s ‘poop’ coming,
‘poop’’s ‘poop’ going.
 
In Qaanaaq are
some folks bizarre:
none dwell much farther north,
though ‘Qaanaaq’s ‘Qaanaaq,’
from whichever pole
one sallies forth.
 
The coin gets tossed.
Through clouds, exhaust,
the race is lost or won,
while ‘racecar’’s
always ‘racecar,’
from whichever end it’s run.
 
There L. There’s G.
There’s B, Q, T.
There’s many shades of gay.
There’s + as well.
Thus, ‘sexes’ looks
like ‘sexes’ either way.
 
This pol’s a souse.
He’s such a louse
he shames both house and Senate
by hawking votes
to purchase potes --
though ‘tenet’’s backwards ‘tenet.’
 
Some purr’d, “Absurd!”
That herd had heard
how, now, King Turd’s call'd Trump.
Yet, ‘Ubu’’s, backwards,
‘Ubu.’ (So: from
both tacks, Drumpf’s a chump.)
 
There’s yod. There’s beth.
There’s mem. There’s teth.
One’s shibboleths they’ll aid.
‘Vav’’s ‘vav’…no matter how –
back, forth –
its letters be array’d.
 
Most differ,
back- and forwards:
Crikey! Blimey! Holy cow!
Gadzooks! Gosh! Jeepers!
E-e-e-eek! Good grief!
But ‘Wow!’’s still, backwards, ‘Wow!’
 
Alprazolam,
diazepam:
each pill’s a silly name,
though none as fun as
Xanax: backwards,
Xanax reads the same.
 
Yreka, California’s
famous bakery’s
closed today.
But ‘Yreka Bakery’’s
still ‘Yreka Bakery,’
come what may.
 
A dollar’s
not a Krugerrand.
A nickel’s not a dime.
Withal, a ‘zuz’ is,
backwards, ‘zuz.’
Thus wraps my rap in rhyme.

26 Non-Pomaceous Pairs (Unpub)

One pair of Chutes (one spells it ‘Shute’)
once shared one pair of parachutes.
The two proved resolute to boot:
they’d wear, unair’d, wet Wellie boots.
 
One pair of Bulls, one day in shul,
declar’d one pair of parables.
One’s Mike; one’s Scott. Pay heed and you’ll
hear bells not toll’d at tractor pulls.
 
One pair of grins – one’s yang, one’s yin –
once graced one pair of peregrines.
“Good morning, Minh.” “How fare thee, Flynn…?”
(If frowns such clowns wear, no one wins.)
 
One pair of pets were order’d, “Get
thee b’yond yon pair of parapets!”
Their fate…? No fete. (Here, on cassette,
view “Tigh ‘n’ Tigger’s Death Duets.”)
 
One pair of Sauls (whose…? Montreal’s)
installs one pair of parasols.
Just who plants whose none now recalls,
nor were there pressing protocols.
 

“A couple of parabolas,”

declares one pair of gabb(e)lers,
“results in psychobabble from
most mathematics dabb(e)lers.”

One pair of dice – much-needed spice –

Eve’d introduce in Paradise.
“You! You’d entice…? Heed Asp’s advice.
One uns-s-s-sliced apple sh-sh-shall s-s-s-suffice.”
 
One pair of Moores one can’t ignore
once took one pair of paramours,
new senses ceding (veil’d before)
to turns of phrase like “two-by-fours.”
 
      * One early manuscript shows
“cellar doors” here. Another has
 
“parquet floors.” Both are early.
 
One pair of graphs (one can but laugh)
attempts one pair of paragraphs
to paraphrase, though just one half
proves readable; the other’s chaff.
 
One peer of Keats (from l’hommes d’elites)
repeats one pair of parakeets’
loquacity: “Too-wheet, too-wheet!”
(L’eclairess’ment: “What’s shakin,’ Sweets…?”)
 
One pair of docs (one Groucho mocks)
apparently’s one paradox:
The short one’s wily as an ox.
The shorter…? Dumber than a fox!
 
Two pairs of dimes – amalgams I’m
to view as pairs of paradigms:
financial fall guys for tough times –
now fail, I fear, to “k’ching!” my chimes.
 
One pair of Finns did, for their sins,
smear pairs of beards with paraffins.
That each bears pairs of double chins
diminish’d damage to their skins.
 
Of all accounts of pairs of mounts
in Lit, which pair be paramount…?
If Silver Rosinant’ surmounts,
does Dapple Tonto’s Scout discount…?
 
Do “noids” of Freud’s wax overjoy’d,
annoying pairs of paranoids…?
Of pity Sigmund proves devoid,
while Anna schizoids now avoids.
 
One pair of lies (who’ll pose the “why…?”s?)
will petrify and paralyze.
The first…? That God bestrides the skies.
The second…? That She prophesies.
 
One pair of Rays (so someone says)
twin virelays in paraphrase
determine to compose…in days!
Fiasco…? Let me count the ways.
 
One pair of sites sits train’d tonight
upon one pair of parasites.
Before they flee (go left, flow right),
let fly…and nuke their leukocites!
 
One pair of Ds (thus: PAR-OD-DY)
misspells completely ‘parodies’
and orthographic’lly ODs…
unless one’s speaking Parrotese.
 
One pair of cleats to prink two feet,
one each for pairs of Paracletes.
Two’d be taboo; yet still they’re fleet.
Pete poached the pair. (Pete always cheats.)
 
One pair of blasts, one day long past,
destroy’d one pair of parablasts.
One film crew on the scene was gass’d.
Press sketches…? None like Nast’s nor Chast’s.
 
One pair of cells, one chemist tells,
invade one pair of paraceles
within one’s brain, where – swell! – they’ll swell,
until one’s hearing “boids ‘n’ bells.”
 
Who’ll swear to share au pairs – in pairs –
with Herr Moliere…? Au pairs like theirs
could care for heirs of trillionaires.
(Their nightmares…? Or their answered prayers…?)
 
A pair of guys (I tell no lies!)
discovered pairs of Paraguays.
The one…? A tropic paradise.
The other…? Shades of Paris skies.
 
Parameters…? I don’t know yours,
but mine rate pairs of amateurs
who’re fabricating haut coutures.
(One hopes that “off-the-rack” endures.)
 
Paracelsus Hohenheim,
a Swiss physician friend of mine,
says, “On one pair o’ seltzas dine
each day. ‘Twill keep ya feelin’ fine.”

The Oyyofest (Past)

Enjoy, did you, the OyyoFest, my boy…?
E’en though ‘twas held in an arroyo…? Oy!
 
Fast food for Friday: fried hay. 
(Fried hay: it may, at last, my vast hide fray.)   
 
Heck! 'O's: lots look like echos.
(Heck! 'O's pot rooks and geckos.)  
 
I'd land on odd O Island --
land high, and -- please! -- on dry land.  
 
Let her lick Lorne's love letter…?
But let her! Who licks wetter…?  

(a work in progress) 
 
Mere roars can't crack curved mirrors.
  
My tears bathe bishops' mitres.
 
Some myrrh cures coughs come summer.     
Dessert…?  Doughnut holes in the desert.
 
Two-day leave, heh…? Let's leave today.
 
Herman! Has he harm’d her, man…?   

The OuLiPo Ten: Anagrams (Unpub)

Noël Arnaud 

howls, “Hell!
I’d drown 

around an El.”
 
Jacques Bens 

would "go to town," were he

elected "Best
Jass Queen (BC).”
 
Claude Berge 

(call'd "Beehive Man" or “Bud”)

pens tomes which graph each 

large bee cud.
 
Jacques Duchateau: 

dead, nu…?
J’s aqua-death cue…? 

“Cu!”
 
Emmanuel Peillet,
with zeal,
express’d it:
“I meant pull me eel.”
 
François Le Lionnais 

insists: “’Tis only sense could roil
my new abecedarial
nonsensical airfoil.”
 
Jean Lescure
each "broomer girl"
esteems. Just hear him:
“See Jane curl!”
 
Raymond Queneau:
you play steelpan,
you sing wid’ ban’...
and you queer man.”
 
Jean Queval,
who must be seen
to be believ’d:
J: Lava Queen.
 
Albert-Marie Schmidt
claims it isn’t his fault:
without searching, he finds,
amid birch trees…malt.

Some Who Lived Here (Unpub(

Some who lived here loved to lav.
Some who lav'd here lived to lave.
Some who laved here loved to leaf.
(Lief, who leaf'd here, lived to loaf.)
Some who loaf'd here loved to luffa.
Some who luffa'd lived to love.
Some who loved here lived to laugh.
None who laugh'd here loved to leave.

Moscow Mitch McConnell (Past)

Moscow Mitch. Oh, Moscow Mitch.
Why mime you Mother Russia’s pitch...?
A puppet-pawn of pinko guys...?
A pol in thrall to Putin’s bitch...?
 
Who motivates you, Moscow Mitch,
to Duma dig…? To demos ditch…?
To push processes penny-wise
and dollar-wise (and ruble-rich!)…?
 
What stimulates you, Moscow Mitch,
our Congress’s mandated niche
(their oversight) to char’cterize
as hoax…? As huntings of the witch…?
 
Whose pow’r’s allow’d you, Moscow Mitch,
to scratch your monetary itch…?
Who lets you, late, “aluminize”
your state, McConnovonovich…?

Moronic Adonics (Unpub)

They’re sonic. They’re phonic.
Laconic they ain’t.
They’re free of eubonics.
Their tonic’s most quaint.
 
Andra moi enne'-…*  
Avis tries harda.'
All is forgiven,
Angus MacGyva.'
 
* Opening of opening
to Homer’s Odyssey
 
Besame mucha.’
Buddhist vihara.
Best in the business...?
Beer an' a chasa.'
Change for a fiva'...?
Cabo San Luca.'
Call me a taxi,
callous Maria.
Down in the cella':
Duke o' Paducah.
Don't be a baby!
Do what ya hafta'! 
 
Ev'ry Septemba,'
each one's a winna'!
Early an' often... 
Easy, big fella'! 
Fifth o' Decemba.' 
Follow the leada.'
Faith of our fathers.
Fannie Lou Ha(y)ma.' 
Go tell Aunt Rhoda!
Gift o' the Maja.
Grow where you're planted,
Garrison Keilla.'
How do I love tha'...?
Hanging at MOMA,
higher an' higher.
Hollywood, Cala-. 
 
Ichthyosaura'...?
Ill with a feva.'
Is that a gun or...?
Iphigenia.
Jackie DeShanna'.
Jolly ol' Santa.
Jus' for a moment:
Jimmy Duranta. 
 
King o' the Khyba'.
Kansas...Missoura. 
Killing me softly...?
Kiss o' the Spida.' 
Lucy Ricarda,
Lolly Madonna:
love 'em or leave 'em...?
Leave 'em to Beava'! 
Martin Scorsesa.
Man o' La Mancha:
make mine a malted!
(Mostly Ma--martha.) 
Noli me tange'...
Night of the junta.
Never on Sunday.
North to Alaska!
Over the rainba.'
Onions an' liva.'
Onward an' upward.
(Oh-oh! Calcutta!) 
Please, Mr. Postma'.
Pride o' the Yanka.'
Play it again, Sam:
Prisoner o' Zenda.
Queequeg the Canni'-
question'd authora'-.
Quadrupedante*...
Quivver thy arra'!
 
     * Cf Virgil's Aeneid.
 
Rock, paper, scissa.'
Ring 'roun' the colla.'
Rightly or wrongly:
'Rriba, arriba!
Sandor van Ochra.
Sally Tomata.
Soup an' a sandwich.
Smoke if ya gotta! 
Ticonderoga...?
Tillie the Toila'...?
Timothy Leary...?
Try to rememba'!
Ursula Andra.'
Up the Establa'-!
Use it or lose it.
Under the rada.'
Vlad the Impala.'
Viva Zapata!
Visit the men's room...?
Vian con dia.'
Wind in the Willa'-...
Winnie Mandala.
We're in the money!
Who, when, where, whattha...?
X follows Dubya.
Xavier Cuga.'
X back in 'Xmas.'
X is for '"Xtra!"  
Yesterday's weatha': 
yellow (vanilla).
You'd better go now, 
Yuri Zhivaga.
Zachary Tayla'...
Zenith de Mila... 
Zippy the Pinhead...? 
Zum gali gala.
 
Ironic…? You bet! Yet they
honor constraint.
They’re moronic adonics.
They’ll brook no complaint.

Misunderstandings (Unpub)

Sie whispers, "Mitzva, dear." 
Er hears: "It’s Mitt's veneer."
When life’s this way, need damen bray
in Herren’s shell-like ear…?
 
Damen’s "Grow! Do well!"
Herr’n hear as "Go to hell!"
When aids are out, needs Lady shout
into Lord’s ear-like shell…?