RHYMES WITH “DUCK”

or
Why I Should be Banned for Life from the Academy of American Poets

poetry - bad

by Joe Buonfiglio

This April marks the 20th anniversary of National Poetry Month, celebrated by the Academy of American Poets since it inaugurated this hoity–toity bit of pretentious self-promotion back in 1996. Over the years, National Poetry Month has aimed to drive home the notion that poetry commands some sort of vital presence in our society and deserves acknowledgement of its robust contribution to our culture.

So as not to appear ungrateful to and for this self-aggrandizing breed of literati, here is my input to the cause, so to speak… in that annoying rhythmic cadence found in smoky dark bars on open mic night.

MY POET’S … HEART?
by
Joe Buonfiglio

Come and listen to my story about a man named Jed
A poor mountaineer, barely kept his family fed.
And then one day he was shootin’ at—

No.

Wait.

Those are The Ballad of Jed Clampett lyrics by Paul Henning for the 1962 sitcom The Beverly Hillbillies.

Here. Try this.

MY POET’S … HEART?
by
Joe Buonfiglio

Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale,
A tale of a fateful trip
That started from this tropic port
Aboard this tiny—

Oh, goddamn it! Those are the George Wyle and Sherwood Shwartz lyrics for The Ballad of Gilligan’s Island. Gilligan’s Island is another 1960s’ sitcom.

Look, maybe I should just face the fact that my brain seems stuck in 1960s’ television before I plagiarize the lyrics to My Mother the Car. And nobody wants that.

Shall we give it another go sans the formulaic TV of the sexual revolution era?

MY POET’S … HEART?
by
Joe Buonfiglio

Of all the fucks I’ve given with a sad, but sincere heart,
You never acknowledge their presence, friend;
Unless I’m drunk and fart.

You call me vulgar, rude and not worthy of my art,
Through bloodshot eyes from whiskey’s blend;
Your words wound as if by dart.

You focus on arcane vapors that do roam as my cheeks part.
It is most unkind, I must contend
To mock my butt-trumpet de’ shart.

So if some cold shudder should overtake you with a start.
Don’t try and say my ass doth offend;
For the aroma you do bogart.

Yes you, my accuser, are a harlequin tart.
A fool and a strumpet with anal portend.
Don’t stand in judgement looking oh so smart.
You smelt it and dealt it, your lie fell apart.

You smelt it and dealt it; this truth is now penned.

You smelt it.

You dealt it.

And this is the end.

Holy fuck, that’s hard. All you hardcore poets out there: RESPECT!

Now go away. I’m watching that channel with all 60s sitcoms and Batman is about to come on. Just look at those tights! Wow.

Somebody should write a poem about that.

 

© 2016 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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