“Russian scientists have been ordered to hand over details of their latest research into anti-ageing remedies in a suspected bid to keep alive Vladimir Putin and his circle of Kremlin cronies. The edict came from the ‘biggest boss’…” —Daily Mail
The biggest boss’s bio-lab brigade Has orders for an anti-aging pill, Ensuring his demise can be delayed By decades. Then the tsar can still fulfill Imperial designs. And all his gray, Gerontocratic Kremlin cronies can Go giddy at the thought they may, some day, Extend their lives to twice the current span … Still, medical ambitions cost a bomb. The Kremlin hawks will know, this question must Be asked: where is the money coming from?— One pill for him could make his war go bust … Some day we’ll say he did not preen in vain, Should vanity bring peacetime to Ukraine!
“ABBA demand Trump campaign stop using their music at rallies” —The Guardian
“Jack White threatens to sue Trump campaign over use of music” —The Guardian
No more ABBA at rallies each night, No Beyoncé or Petty or White.
Ditto Springsteen and Hayes
(Though Ted Nugent still plays)—
Are there any good jams on the Right?
“At sweltering Venice film festival [George Clooney] denies that he and Brad Pitt have been paid $35m each … “It is millions and millions and millions of dollars less than what was reported,” Clooney told a packed- out press conference on Sunday.” —The Guardian
It never sounds good, howsoever you’re courted
For bone-shape and general brilliance,
To state that your paycheck is less than reported
By millions and millions and millions.
“All of London’s seedy poetry is there to see in the setting for TV thriller” —The Guardian
Ah, London’s seedy poetry! Relayed for all to see!
Its origin’s no younger than the fourteenth century:
Recall the Reeve’s and Miller’s Tales, and other fabliaux,
Now findable on Google, if you’re sure you want to know.
Remember Swift’s foul “Shower,” with the offal-oozing ditches,
The Beggar’s Opera songs assigned to robbers, pimps, and snitches,
And, later, Blake’s young harlot, and De Quincy’s dens (O curse!—
I’ve only just remembered that he didn’t write in verse).
Time passed, and brought The Waste Land’s shady Stetson, summoned wryly
Through urban murk (though, oddly, it appears he fought at Mylae);
Then “London Roses,” Willa Cather’s dyslogy, which shows
The city is a cesspit that can even spoil a rose.
This crustiness seems one of those interminable vogues:
Think Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd and all that squalor from the Pogues;
From Chaucer to last Tuesday, London seethes with poetry!
Go look it up. I’m busy disinfecting my TV.
“Trump Team Clashed With Official at Arlington National Cemetery The military cemetery said… federal law prohibits political campaigning on the grounds” —The New York Times
“Suckers and losers,” when the time is right,
can be brought in to your side of the fight.
“A would-be burglar in Rome… became distracted after picking up a book about Homer’s Iliad on a bedside table. … News of the failed burglary attracted the attention of the book’s author, who told local media he wanted to send the man a copy so he could ‘finish’ his read. … Mr Nucci [the author] said his personal favourite deity was
Hermes, the god of thieves.” —BBC News
When a burglar’s duly mindful of his calling
(Of his calling),
When a robber has some pride in his employ
(His employ),
He—or she—should shun all writing that’s enthralling
(That’s enthralling),
Like anything about the War in Troy
(War in Troy).
If “delinquent”’s not to be a mere misnomer
(Mere misnomer),
If “thief” means more than “amateur in crime,”
(-Teur in crime),
Then a sit-down in a stranger’s house with Homer
(House with Homer)
Is not a thing for which there’s any time.
O!
If you had to break a window to get in
(To get in),
That’s not the place to learn if Greece will win
(Greece will win).
When an author’s done with Paris and with Helen
(And with Helen),
When a writer needs a break from mighty Zeus
(Mighty Zeus),
He (or she) may feel some fondness for a felon
(For a felon),
A tendency for which there’s no excuse
(No excuse).
But writers get so little chance to wallow
(Chance to wallow)
In fanship that required no teacher’s prod
(Teacher’s prod),
And though they enjoy the blessings of Apollo
(Of Apollo)
The thieves have got great Hermes as their god.
O!
Though a term of immuration should be had
(Should be had),
Let’s hope the lock-up stocks The Iliad
(Iliad).
“Britain’s theme parks are more fun in the rain, claims boss” —The Telegraph
If watching people slip on greasy walkways
And break a leg or fall beneath a car
Or lose an eye to metal-tipped umbrellas
Convulses you with mirth, I guess they are.
“[Many bat] biologists… have the zeal of converts, who at some point turned from other mammals to find a wonderland of scientific mysteries, like bats’ impossibly acrobatic flight… [Bats are] the only mammals that fly.” —National Geographic
Flittering, fluttering
agile mammalians
somehow, incredibly,
dance in the sky.
Scientists studying
microchiroptera
gaze in amazement when
acro-bats fly.
“US schools employ gun-sniffing dogs to curb violence—and bring students joy … [D]ogs become ‘popular’ safety measure that also has emotional benefits” —The Guardian
“Popular,” in quotation marks? Perhaps
For fear of finding something simply good
In this—allowing standards to collapse
Till we forget that actually we could
Have something still more popular: safe schools;
But, since we won’t, let’s welcome in the dogs,
Trained and assigned as violence-curbing tools,
Displayed, snouts lifted, in brochures and blogs,
Ready to sniff out guns, and more: the smell
Of panic, of confusion. Children crowd
Around, surprised by eyes of caramel,
Long ears for things that can’t be voiced aloud,
Backs to be stroked, the friendliest of barks:
Bringers of joy (not in quotation marks).
“Apartment complex bills woman who died $15,000 for breaking her lease” —Local 12 News
That little amount that you’ve managed to save?
It’s true that you can’t take it into the grave,
But not for the sake of the proverb’s intent—
It’s landlords demanding full payment of rent.
The hot water’s icy, repairs are postponed.
The maintenance manager always looks stoned.
But people must pay on apartments they’ve leased,
No matter if hospitalized or deceased.
So read the fine print of all contracts you sign—
Your death might incur an additional fine.
And landlords are willing to pillage and plunder
Remains of their tenants who’ve moved six feet under.
“In a sign that Spain is going off dating apps, men and women of all ages are said to be searching for partners in the supermarket chain Mercadona.” —The Times
In downtown Garcia, José and Maria
Decided to shop for a mate.
They bumped in the aisle.
He asked, with a smile,
“Would you like to go on a date?”
“¡Ay no!” gasped Maria. “The very idea
Consumes me with feelings of dread.
One glance at your trolley
Has shown me the folly
Of risking a night in your bed.
I just want a man with a glorious tan,
Who’s a star of the pool and the gym.
But I see what you’ve bought,
And I can’t help the thought
That whoever he is, you’re not him.
Cigarros and booze aren’t the best things to choose,
When you’re hoping like hell to impress.
Or churros, or pies,
Or those jumbo-sized fries.
Let’s be honest, José, you’re a mess!”
And so, poor José had to go on his way,
Still an hombre pursuing his dream.
On the shelf, sad to say,
But consoled every day
With a galón of chocolate ice cream.
• “Cruise passengers who spent up to £680,000 on three-year trip stranded in Belfast for three months: The ship, ‘Odyssey’,
had planned to depart for the three-year voyage on 30 May” —The Independent, August 2024 • “Moon landing goes sideways: Odysseus mission will be cut short after craft tipped over” —USA Today, February 2024 • “Active recalls affecting the Honda Odyssey: 67” —Cars.com, March 2024
Will treks you bless
be hiccup-free,
or choke? I’d guess,
from past debris,
their destiny.
(Asphyxia’s.)
But don’t mind me,
Odysseus.
It’s S.O.S.—
not V.I.P.—
that should impress
in your C.V.
Yet your I.D.
can tizzy us
with travel glee,
Odysseus.
You journeyed, yes,
from A to B,
but hurry-less
and haltingly.
I’m Odyssey-
sus-pish-y-ous.
But few agree,
Odysseus:
I found a bear beside the road,
It was already dead.
I felt the need to drive it home.
Ditto the severed head
Of a cetacean I picked up
And strapped atop my car.
In context, my embracing such
A creature’s not bizarre.
“A 3,500-year-old jar has been accidentally smashed into pieces by a four-year-old boy during a trip to a museum in Israel. … The boy’s father, Alex, said his son ‘pulled the jar slightly” because he was ‘curious about what was inside’, causing it to fall. … The Hecht Museum said the child has been invited back to the exhibition with his family for an organised tour…” —BBC
He tipped the jar, and out the whole gang flew:
War, Sickness, Famine, Rage, Confusion too,
Terror, Fatigue, Old Hatred, Wasted Breath,
Hypocrisy, Indifference, and Death:
Blood-riddles, far beyond a toddler’s scope;
But something else he found there: Hope. We hope.
