“Helicopter pilot finds ‘strange’ monolith in remote part of Utah
State employee spotted mysterious metal structure amid red rocks
while counting bighorn sheep”
—The Guardian
A helicopter pilot, counting sheep
(Not, to be clear, for purposes of sleep)
Spotted a metal structure down in Utah:
Amid red rocks, a streak of shiny pewtah.
We know that UFOs are but a myth:
So we assume this lonely monolith
Is nothing but a tribute, or a rubric
To show us what we know of Stanley Kubrick.
“A rainbow mural of seven Winston Churchills wearing stockings and suspenders which prompted a complaint… because of the wartime prime minister’s trademark V-sign is to be allowed to remain in place.” —The Guardian
As every schoolchild knows, or must suppose,
“Up yours!” is not what Churchill’s V-sign meant, Though painting him in underpants and hose Unwisely welcomes priggish discontent! Resolved that Winston’s mural was too rude, Naff Brighton Council ordered: “Overpaint— Obscenity in public shan’t be viewed!” … No trousers on, did that cause this complaint? … All in the nick of time, the truth came out: Vast ignorance of Churchill’s time prevailed. Some councillors, in law, may have some clout. In history, abysmally, all failed! … Go see the mural as it was before— No longer rude, its V means “won this war!”
Oh, how I miss Trader Joe’s,
And Safeway would make my heart swell.
I would love to peruse all the aisles
Of my local Home Depot as well.
But since I am into my eighties,
These lavish forays I’ll forgo
As I wait for the shot to release me
From this son-of-a [bleep] status quo.
“Rudy Giuliani appears to sweat hair dye as he makes election claims” —The Telegraph
With posture of bat and malevolent mewl,
Our Rudy’s well known as both vampire and ghoul;
But still it’s a shock (one that can’t be denied)
To find he’s not only Undead but Undyed.
A sudden glow: the hollowed arms upswept
Above the wandering head, the starry burst
Streaking the dark. The cobwebbed feet have kept
Their knowledge, not their power: she was cursed,
Long since, this maimed princess. A crueller stroke
Than Rothbart’s holds her caged, blots out her sky;
How can frail forelimbs beat away his smoke?
How can a grounded spirit hope to fly
Back to its Lake?—except that something strange
Still beats in her, beneath her parchy skin:
A memory. Among art’s kindlier things,
This timelessness, created out of change:
A ballerina, spotlit from within,
Trailing her lovely, half-extended wings.
“The Vatican said it was seeking explanations from Instagram after Pope Francis’s official account
liked a photo of a scantily dressed Brazilian model.” —The Guardian
Models displayed over Buzzfeed and Twitter,
Costumed in little but stockings and glitter,
Braless Brazilians in shoes heeled with spikes:
These are some things that His Holiness likes.
Monsignori
May show fury
(As no churchman should),
Shouting Anathema!Obstat! or Yikes!—
The Pope’s never felt so good.
“‘The Nature of Middle-earth, a collection of previously unpublished J.R.R. Tolkien essays…
will be released by HarperCollins in June 2021.’ … The topics [include] ‘Elvish immortality
and reincarnation.'” –lithub.com
Higgledy-hobbity,
J.R.R. Tolkien
soon will reveal how the
soul of an elf,
being immortal and
reincarnational,
always returns—like the
author himself.
“Emily W. Murphy is hearing from Americans demanding she do her job. There’s just one problem:
She’s not that Emily W. Murphy. … It seems ordinary Americans had identified her as the Emily W.
Murphy appointed by President Trump as head of the General Services Administration, who has infuriated many with her refusal to sign documents declaring Joe Biden as the apparent winner
of the presidential election.” —The Washington Post
We differ but we seem to be the same: Each one’s a Murphy, Emily as well. But if, in full, you write the middle name, Such sameness is so easy to dispel… Though if a W is all you see, Especially if photos aren’t supplied, Regrettably, you think that I am she And send me pens, and though I’m on your side, No power to use pens at GSA Do I yet have. But if pens come in tens, Would you please send, not Bics, but Cartier Authentic gold and diamond fountain pens?… No help to Joe’s transition could I be— Gold would, however, help transition me!
“AMAZING! More than one MILLION marchers for President Trump descend on the swamp in support” —Kayleigh McEnany on Twitter
Once more, inanely, McEnany’s blundered.
Her claim: “More than one MILLION marchers” went.
In fact, eleven thousand and six hundred—
She only lied by 99%.
Come on—go gentle into that good night;
Don’t claim you were the victim of a fix.
The votes are in. Admit you lost the fight.
Insisting you’ve prevailed? Ha-ha, not quite.
Although there were some states still in the mix—
Uncertainties upon election night—
They’ve been decided, most of them, despite
Your lawyers’ lame attempts to eighty-six
The Constitution. They can’t win this fight.
Your petulance and pettiness and spite
May help you win retweets and likes and clicks;
The tirades lasting long into the night
May serve to whet your base’s appetite,
But it’s no substitute for politics.
The votes are counted now. You lost the fight.
We’re sick and bloody tired of this, all right?
Denial, obstinacy, dirty tricks,
Like “loser” is a fate you have to fight?
Do not. Go gentle into that. Good night.
