by Marshall Begel
More Than a Third of College Students Check Social Media or Text During Sex”
—People
Babe, I love the way you smell
Mr. Beast can go to hell
This way? Okay, watch your knee.
Simp gave up and ghosted me
Need me higher? How is that?
LOL—that zesty cat!
Maybe go a little faster?
Hinge is a complete disaster
Pookie—that’s it—yes, Yes, YES!
Almost done here, SYS
That performance gets a speech—
let me start with eggplant, peach.
by Steven Urquhart Bell
“Dark showering: Scientists reveal health benefits of washing with the lights off before bed”
—Daily Mail
My waning health is going in
The opposite direction;
I feel a whole lot younger now
I can’t see my reflection.
by Julia Griffin
“Italy’s famous Lovers’ Arch collapses into the sea on Valentine’s Day:
Rock structure which served as backdrop to countless proposals disappears into the Adriatic after storm.”
—The Guardian
(After Ophelia)
“Tomorrow is St. Valentine’s Day,”
The Arch enticed the Sea;
“The kids will soon be smooching: say,
What chance of you and me?”
Then up he whipped and roundly gripped
Her stones, so firm before,
And left her scourged and half-submerged
And really Arch no more.
Quoth she: “Before you tumbled me
We made the cutest pair!”
He waved a wave. “You were my fave;
But when you talk sexy, take care.”
by Paul Lander
Board of Peace meets up.
Donald goes nappy nap, so:
More like bored of peace.
by Dan Campion
“Jesse Jackson, Charismatic Champion of Civil Rights, Dies at 84”
—The New York Times
Amid conditions full of spite
He spread a rainbow filled with light.
Stood up and marched for what was right.
He spread a rainbow filled with light.
Kept hope alive with wit and might.
He spread a rainbow filled with light.
A spirit free at last in flight
He spread a rainbow filled with light.
by Steven Kent
“Austria offers safe haven for US academics as Trump wages war on universities”
—The Guardian
In Austria, some college
Will gain the most from our domestic knowledge,
And now the whole world sees
We sacrifice the future by degrees.
by Orel Protopopescu
“Macbeth shall never vanquished be until
Great Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane Hill
Shall come against him.”
—Macbeth Act IV, Scene I
I don’t like football. Never go.
The name Bad Bunny seemed inane
to me until his half-time show
took me through waving sugar cane.
Green leaves, blue words, advanced like fate,
like Birnam Wood to Dunsinane,
to keep a raunchy, joyful date
with destiny: month two, day eight.
Green power glittered in a tide
of barrios on bunny feet.
And who could miss his sly aside?
I sing about a king’s defeat.
Americas came out and sang
with Bunny in his suit, cool-white,
in Puerto Rican Spanish slang
well-flecked with sex to give it bite.
His playful show was not the thing,
alas, when all was said and done,
that caught the conscience of a king,
because our would-be king has none.
by Felicia Nimue Ackerman
“Amid the lamentations about America’s healthcare system, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention last week reported some good news you might have missed. Lo, life expectancy in the U.S. hit a record [of 79 years] in 2024…”
—The Wall Street Journal
To die when you’re 79?
You’re thinking that sounds really great?
To me it is not all that fine,
Since I am now 78.
by Julia Griffin
For Jack, the Walrus Muse, who would never do anything of the kind
“São Paulo names new law after dog that stayed by owner’s grave for 10 years:
The Bob Coveiro (the Gravedigger) Law ‘recognises the emotional bond between guardians and their pets’ … [and] authorises dogs and cats to be buried in graves and family plots whose concessions belong to their owners’ families. Bob’s former owner died in 2011. After her burial, the brown long-haired mixed-breed dog reportedly refused to leave her side…”
—The Guardian
(After Thomas Hardy)
Ah, are you digging on my grave?
No doubt I should have known;
You’ve found a place for running free,
And charmed a graveyard employee,
Or possibly you want to pee,
Or hide yourself a bone.
Mistress, I dug upon your grave,
But what you say is wrong;
I am a dog, I can’t explain;
I do not have a human brain;
I only know that, wind or rain,
This is where I belong.
Oh, my good boy, forget my grave!
You have a life to live;
Don’t feel you have to spend it here
In this cold place which humans fear;
You’ve nothing more to prove, my dear:
I’ve nothing to forgive.
Mistress, I’ll dig upon your grave,
And guard you where you lie;
This is the work I’m bound to do,
And other diggers, faithful too,
I hope will let me rest with you,
The day I come to die.
by Steven Urquhart Bell
“[UK supermarket chain] Asda gives single shoppers red baskets to find love”
—The Telegraph
A basket colored red to make
My single status clear?
I think it’s clear enough from all
The ready meals and beer.
by Stephen Gold
“Top of the flops: the world’s worst inventions honoured in [Parisian] exhibition.”
—The Times
Is your brilliant new invention
Met with smirks of condescension?
Are your friends inclined to mention you’re a nut?
Does your lunatic creation
To aid golfers’ urination
Find the door to acclamation firmly shut?
Welcome to our exhibition,
Where your wacky intuition
Has unqualified permission to roam free.
Innovators with ambition
Can at last win recognition
For their vision (though its flaws are plain to see).
We should cherish our freethinkers.
Though their thoughts are often stinkers,
They’re not blinkered to the promise of the new.
What the hell if other nations
Love to mock their aspirations?
France thinks l’excentricité’s right up our rue.
by Nora Jay
“Italy’s state broadcaster, Rai, has been accused of censorship after using an image of Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man with the genitals missing in the opening credits for its Winter Olympics coverage.”
—The Guardian
Vitruvius is feeling vitriolic.
And honestly his question’s quite a facer:
While some are swelling with hyaluronic,
Why has he been unmanned by an eraser?
The case has caused no end of consternation
(At his age most are moaning of podagra);
To make a break from this vituperation,
Vitruvius now wants vitruviagra.
by Paul Lander
Democracy dies
in daylight, as WaPo writes
own obit notice.
by Thomas Germana
“The Trump administration has turned to an unusual weapon in its attempt to resurrect coal mining—a cartoon lump of coal, complete with giant eyes and yellow mining garb, called ‘Coalie’.”
—The Guardian
Honestly, this advertising
Isn’t really that surprising.
Trump and all his party-liners
Made it clear they’re after miners.
by Kaitlyn Spees
“Moltbook is the newest social media platform—but it’s just for AI bots”
—NPR
I’m glad AI bots have this site,
since taking breaks to whine
about one’s boss’s dumb requests
helps work to feel benign.
But add up all the resource use
for each AI post? Shock.
Lord knows that I’d get canned for so
much water cooler talk.