by Chris O’Carroll

A free press is a pain in the ass—
On most journals I’ll just take a pass—
But I love the warm glow
Of a well-landed blow
From an X-rated Forbes-wielding lass.

by Orel Protopopescu

“Before Premiere, Protests by a Caste. After, by Critics.”—The New York Times

They stormed the movie set
of a film they hadn’t seen
to protest its depiction
of a fourteenth-century queen.

“Behead the shameful actress
who wore such skimpy clothes
to play our heroine,”
they screamed. “Cut off her nose!”

“Behead the film’s director!”
some angry Rajputs cried.
To salvage Hindu honor,
girls threatened suicide.

A school bus full of children
was stoned, and angry mobs
were spurred by politicians
who hoped to keep their jobs.

But what of Padmavati,
that legendary queen?
A Sufi poet made her up.
She only lives on-screen.

by Joanna Bird

“‘They are like animals’: Chaos erupts as French shoppers battle over discounted Nutella.”—The Washington Post

Although it’s not all that nutritious,
Nutella’s insanely delicious!
Its chocolate and nuts—
Plus drastic price cuts—
Can make a consumer quite vicious.

by Jerome Betts

“Adolescence now lasts . . . to 24, although
it used to be thought to end at 19.”—BBC News

Thirteen, from dump to Georgian deanery,
Proclaims the start of offsprings’ teenery.

The years this lasts are, strictly, seven
For parents often far from heaven,
With all the trials of adolescence
From lethargy to effervescence.

Hail, acne, mood-swings, hormones, braces,
Binge-drinking, break-ups, surly faces,
And fads, from eco-freak to Moonie,
Tongue-piercing, tattoos, choice of Uni!

But now, it seems, its real duration
Is six more years of tribulation,
Financial chaos, unwise beddings,
Court orders, drugs, and shotgun weddings.

Yet, worse, the cynic will assert, is
With some it stretches through their thirties.

by Mae Scanlan

The Donnie lies over the ocean,
The Donnie’s in Switzerland now.
He’s bound to stir up a commotion;
The question is, what, when and how.

Bring — back — this — quack;
Don’t let him alienate our friends!
Oh — wait — too — late —
I’d rather not know how this ends.

by Bruce McGuffin

Rupi Kaur’s poetry
isn’t appealing.
The form’s too informal.
It’s too full of feeling.
The Guardian said, so
we know that it’s true.
And now that I’ve read so,
I know what to do.
I’m giving up Instagram—
I’ll be at ease
with Joyce Kilmer’s old
ruminations on trees.

by Julia Griffin

“[Stephanie] Clifford also described her sexual encounters with the businessman, saying … “The sex was nothing crazy. … It was textbook generic. … I can definitely describe his junk perfectly, if I ever have to.”—In Touch magazine

He’d endlessly brag how he looked on a mag—
A regular treat for humanity;
His meanest remarks were directed at sharks:
He hates them (except for Sean Hannity).
Just picture the scene: the sharks on the screen,
With me in the briefest of nighties,
And hot in pursuit, presidential but cute,
Himself, in petite tighty-whities.
It got kind of dark and we watched some more shark:
It never got really much swoonier.
The act was generic (remember, there’s Eric)
Not crazy (but still there’s Don Junior).
He promised I’d be, like, a star on TV,
Then he asked: “Will you sign me a print of you?”
I felt the whole drama just clamoured for karma:
And that’s why I’m giving this interview.

by Gail White

“House Republicans coalesce behind plan to avert shutdown” —Politico.com

Same old shenanigan—
playing kick-the-can again—
Hallelujah, give the leaders praise!
If we just delay to tax
health devices, Cadillacs,
we can function for another twenty days.

And as for DACA, say,
we should march those kids away,
only seven hundred thousand, more or less.
We will raise a mighty shout
as we ship the Dreamers out,
and that settles up the immigration mess.

Do we need a border wall?
No, frankly, not at all,
and the Democrats oppose it to a man.
Leave security aside,
give them CHIP to soothe their pride;
let’s play another game of kick-the can.

by Chris O’Carroll

He says I’ve learned stuff and evolved,
But that’s not true at all.
I’m just as uninformed as when
I first howled, “Build the wall!”

How dare my chief of staff suggest
I’ve had a second thought?
I contradict myself a lot,
But he had better not.

by Marty Steyer

A spectacular false alarm

From deep within the bowels of Diamond Head,
an oracle proclaims: Looks like we’re dead!
Soon missiles will be arcing through our skies.
(There’s little hope they’re headed for Van Nuys.)

Radiation, spawned by North Korea,
will cause hysteria and diarrhea.
Quite seriously, this is not a hoax.
Stop what you’re doing and find shelter, folks.

Bikinied bombshells leave the beaches bare,
and handsome hunks hightail it out of there.
Which leaves what? Wrinkled prunes, like you and I.
Aloha, love. Goodbye. Hello. Goodbye.

by Phil Huffy

A Rembrandt was found in a basement.
A Bugatti got stashed in a barn.
An abandoned quartet of Vivaldi
was ensconced in a shed near the Marne.

A recipe writ for King Edward
has been baked at a hole in the wall,
and a photo of Dame Nellie Melba
has turned up at a flea-market stall.

An old New York Times in the attic
that was wrapped round a holiday plate
is the only antique I’ve uncovered
in the realm of my own sad estate.

by Donald A. Ranard

(On the Occasion of Jeff Flake’s Senate Speech)

There’s good news
and there’s bad news,
and there’s news that is fake.
But the best news of the week’s news
is news that is Flake.

by James Hamby

Trump passed his cognitive test,
And that is good,
But one thing, I fear,
Is misunderstood:
We’re not so much worried
About how many words he can retrieve,
But if he can tell the difference
Between what’s real and make-believe.

by Barbara Lydecker Crane

Beyond brisk,
a brutal blast—
Labrador landed
in Boston last week.
I brace my brittle body
against the brunt
of wind abridging
breath. Beneath boots,
sidewalk snow crackles
like broken vertebrae
but icy broomstick legs
brush and shuffle still.
This breakneck day
my bronchial bray:
“Oh, for Brazil!”

by Orel Protopopescu

Please come, save us from racists
and economic voodoo.
The president’s an asshole.
We’re drowning in deep doodoo.