Thursday, November 19, 2009


If you type in ‘world’s shortest peom’ into Google it will automatically ask you: did you mean ‘world’s shortest poem’? Well, then you click on that what do you find?


Adam had’em.


This poem is problematic. It continues to promote the Judeo-Christian mythos that Adam was the first person. If you follow that logic, then pretty soon you have Eve being created from Adam’s rib, and then perhaps getting fleas (you will recall that Adam had them). I find this patriarchal nonsense pretty hard to swallow. It’s 2009. We’re almost through with the aughts and this is still the most popular short poem out there? Should I get the hangers out boys? Or, maybe you’d like to commit me for being hyster-ical? Oh, is that a tent out there for my ‘lady’s days’. No. I say NO NO NO NO. Sisters! We must raise up against this oppressor, this flea-ridden first man. WE NEED A NEW SHORT POEM. (And don’t you dare mention Ogden Nash’s “Parsley’s gharsley”…gharsley is not even a word, son.)


-Anita Deely

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Funeral Blues (unedited poem)

Stop all the COCKS, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy BONE,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners COME.

Let aeroplanes circle MOANING overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the PUBIC doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday BREAST,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my DONG;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

Fart in my face.
Fart in my face.
For the human race.
Put me in my fart face place.

-W.H. Auden

This guy was a real sick twist. I'm actually glad he had some editors, because this would have caused some serious problems at my school. I mean, what the hell are you talking about, W.H.? And what kind of name is that? Stands for Wackoff Hands. Old Wackoff Hands Auden with another dirty poem about his little fart fetish. Why do we let this guy have a typewriter? Still, I see what he's going for.


-Eric Roach, Anderson Lawfer

Poems in Their Original State (uncensored poems)

America has a troubled history with allowing the poets, singers and dancers express themselves in the way they choose. We take their material, cut it up, paste it on a wall, dance around it, then spit on it like it was nothing to us but a filthy whore or sister that isn't alive anymore because she knew what she did.

Well, Eric and Andy can't rest while this is happening any longer!
We have dug through the poem vault to bring you the finest material you never knew exsisted.
Poems you have grown up loving, or are new to your children. Poems that touched you, or your children, or your gandparents.
To begin, here is a piece from the much beloved Shel Silverstien told in it's meant-to-be way:

Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and vagina.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
Tits Tits Tits and Farts for Lunch!
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or--
Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar!

Told in it's orginal way, this poem has gone from amusing, to a mirror on society.

Dirty Limerick (funny poetry)

There once was a man from Nantucket,
Who's cock was so long he could suck it.
As he said with a grin,
As he wiped off his chin,
"If my ear was a cunt, I'd fuck it!" - Anon.

I think we've ALL been in this crazy situation before. The "man from Nantucket" is saddled with both a blessing and a curse...he's the Everyman in this piece, and the price of his pleasure is pain. Perhaps because he is average in every other way, or perhaps because he hails from Nantucket (an island with a notoriously checkered past) women don't need him. And though you may think he's got it made, think one more time: he can only love himself. A life of narcissism and self-fellatio would be wonderful for a few days (perhaps a few months if you went to Amsterdam), like the Black Eyed Peas posit in their classic tune "Where is the love?"...just where is the love?

This poem speaks to us all, and also makes us laugh because of funny rhyming schemes.


-Eric Roach, Anderson Lawfer

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

VACATION WEEK! (Week of Travel Information)

Hello readers!
Well this is your big oppurtunity to have your words actually published in a real life blog! Not everybody can say that! Most people can, but not everyone. My mom has a hard time working computers, so not her, and I know at least 4 people who get restless leg syndrome, so not them either unless they are "blogging" about that condition.

If you could take a vacation anyplace in the world, where would it be?

Just write us an article about the place and send it to my assisstant, Trish Hooper at

Again, any story, review of a hotel, a favorite drink, a place to buy Mexican children, whatevs!

Have a great day, and let's vacay!