by Chris O’Carroll

“Donald Trump’s Mar-a-Lago private club in Palm Beach is set to raise its initiation fee
from $700,000 to a staggering $1 million.”
—The Independent

Pay a million to join Mar-a-Lago.
Ante up. Be elite. Have it all—
The palm trees, the nearby Atlantic,
The felon’s face gracing the wall.

For those who are courting his favor,
This fee is one way to begin.
Hand over a million. The felon
Will happily welcome you in.

You know how corruption defines him
And his every unscrupulous knack.
He’ll lower your taxes by zillions.
Right now, kick a piece of it back.

Fatten the purse of the felon
For judgments he might have to pay.
A million plus Florida sunshine
Has fascism looking OK.

by Steven Kent

“‘They’ll do good work’: In JD Vance’s hometown, Trump is already the winner”
—The Guardian

Oh Middletown, Middletown, what have you done?
An Ivy League phony’s your favorite son;
This heir of a blue-collar steel-working man
Will gut Grandpa’s union as fast as he can.
Unprincipled toady, political hack—
He’ll come to campaign, then he’ll never come back.
They sell you out daily, these cynical men,
And still you’ll support them again and again.

by Iris Herriot

“More than a third of UK adults have given up reading for pleasure, study finds”
—The Guardian

So what do you do with your leisure?
How could it be sweetlier spent?
You’re giving up reading for pleasure?
I”m giving up Jesus for Lent.

by Julia Griffin

Last month, the national museum of Ireland “received two 4,000-year-old axe heads, ‘thoughtfully’ wrapped in [pink] foam
inside a porridge box … [A] farmer from County Westmeath has come forward as the mysterious sender,
saying he made the ‘absolutely mad’ discovery while using a metal detector on his land.”
—The Guardian

Open the box: a tub of rosy foam
Bubbles to light, new-made and feminine,
Bathtime for Barbie! And, enwombed within,
See two gray axe heads, hauled up from the loam.

Why now, this century? A curious
Farmer, detecting metal in his ground,
Unburied them, found foam to wrap them round,
And sent them on. And so they come to us,

After four thousand years: each heavy blade
Looks threatening as ever, though less keen,
Nursed and reborn from polyethylene
(A sweeter-looking killer we have made).

by Scot Slaby

“An Oscar Mayer Wienermobile got into a pickle on a Chicago highway.”
—The Associated Press

When a Hotdogger loses control
of his Wienermobile, makes it roll
on its side, traffic’s hellish—
we drivers don’t relish
how the wait on our buns takes its toll.

by Simon MacCulloch

“One in six Conservative voters likely to die before next election, analysis shows…
In comparison, only 500,000 Labour voters—or 5.3%—are expected to die in the same period”
—The Independent

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That should have voted Labour.

by Dan Campion

“John Mayall, Pioneer of British Blues, Is Dead at 90”
—The New York Times

I’ve listened to your blues for fifty years
And shed in consequence a flood of tears
For those you’ve eulogized. So now for you,
Dear John, I’m wrung near dry. But feeling blue.

by Nicole Caruso Garcia

Welcome to the podcast! (Well,
it’s more an intervention.)
Congrats (and caveats) on being
tapped for highest henchman.

If Donald does you dirty—and
it’s less an if than when—
while scheming to be king (although
he should be in the pen),

how firm is your resolve when you’ve
been thrown beneath the bus?
Will you, the flattened toady, save
democracy for us?

How quickly can you run, J.D.,
in wingtips on the job?
How nimbly can you ditch an angry,
feces-smearing mob?

Why go from “Never Trump” to playing
Banquo to Macbeth?
Have you not seen the tweets in which
he rubber-stamped my death?

I’m showing you the ropes (the makeshift
gallows and the noose).
I had no crystal ball when I
signed on. What’s your excuse?

by Gail White

“Nearly a million homes, businesses… still without power”
—Reuters

When Beryl barreled into town,
A lot of power lines went down.
Our state is off the national grid.
Our governor has gone and hid.
We don’t know what to hate the most
As Texans turn to Texas Toast.

by Julia Griffin

After Catullus

“The son of Asia’s richest man gets married in the year’s most extravagant wedding”
—The Associated Press

Hymen, let your torches flash
For the great Ambani bash:
Blind our eyes and blur our sense
With ineffable expense,
Io Hymen Hymenaee io,
Io Hymen Hymenaee!

Spread a carpet, ruby red,
For celebrities to tread:
Rappers, statesmen, movie stars,
Techno-moguls back from Mars:
Io …

Let the entertainers play
For a billion bucks a day,
While earth’s leading chef unveils
Almas caviar in pails:
Io …

Bless the mother of the groom,
Who could light the darkest room
With the emeralds she wears,
Sized like avocado pears,
Io …

Keep far hence the captious scold
Muttering that, were they sold,
Sapphires of such magnitude
Might fill all Sudan with food.
Io …

Now the sun begins to set
Like a Cartier baguette,
Hymen, lead the gleaming twain
To a room the size of Spain
Io …

Stitch the sheets they’ll lie within
From endangered species’ skin;
Weave of phoenix plumes a wreath
For each brush that meets their teeth
Io …

Finally, in bed, alone,
Grant, instead of flesh and bone,
Each may find the one they hold
Turned to purest Saudi gold.
Io Hymen Hymenaee io,
Io Hymen Hymenaee!

by Stephen Gold

“Russian censors’ biggest fear: A book about a pink zombie mouse.
The Kremlin says that the book Mouse contains ‘false messages
about acts of terrorism’ and threatens public order”
—The Times

Comrades! In our Motherland,
An existential threat
To Comrade Putin is at hand.
Will it defeat us? Nyet!

Zombies, be they mice or men,
Cannot remain at large.
So let us wield the censor’s pen,
And save the rat in charge.

by Dan Campion

“Underground Cave Discovered on Moon Could Shelter Future Lunar Astronauts”
—ScienceAlert

Take that, moon shadows and moonbeams!
Moon, queen of tides and waves,
Once spellbound by your shades and gleams,
We’re coming for your caves.

by Julia Griffin

After Ovid; for Sophie

“Tourist who simulated sex with god of fertility statue defended for ‘amorous exaltation’”
—The Telegraph

Poor Galatea, turned to flesh and blood,
Esteemed her new embodiment a dud.
Efforts were vain: she could not but detest
The way that skin squashed inwards when depressed:
Lips were so spongy, kisses made her shiver,
As you might feel if smooching with a liver.
Mankind was meat: however hard she tried,
She could not focus on the bones inside;
Her lover sang her praises, but no tone
Could match the calm of metal or of stone.
Picture her, then, discovering, in Florence,
An antidote to so much shamed abhorrence:
God Bacchus—hitherto the pantheon’s
Most fleshly god, but here transformed to bronze!
A hard, bright, clean, unundulating form,
Which nothing but the sun’s own rays could warm,
Met her long gaze and did not even blink.
She felt her epidermis turning pink;
What now? She had no wish to cause a panic,
But non-organic called to non-organic;
Long-flattened hopes awoke and would not settle:
She longed to match her mettle with his metal,
Till, cutting through confusion’s labyrinth
(Also the crowds), she stormed that lofty plinth,
And seized, with no regard for time or place,
A joy beyond our flabby human race.

by Steven Urquhart Bell

“The site of epic clash between Spartacus and Roman army discovered in Italy”
—The Independent

It could provide a massive boost for business in the region,
’Cos staging re-enactments of the clash
Between the gladiators and a fully-armored legion
Would bring a lot of extra tourist cash.

A fight instructor should ensure that nothing goes amiss,
Though casting it might not be trouble-free:
“Now, who did we agree on for the role of Spartacus?”
“I’m Spartacus!” “No, I am!” “No, it’s me!”

by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons

“(London’s) Met Police commissioner seeks new recruits to ‘change the force'”
—BBC

Constabulary scandals at the Met
Have sparked our urgent search for raw recruits,
Accustomed to low wages, who might get
New thrills from stepping out in copper’s boots.
Got empathy? Got courage and respect?
Employment as a copper beckons—if
New Scotland Yard sees all three boxes checked,
Expect the competition won’t be stiff.
Excited to reform our culture? We’re
Delighted that you want to work for change,
Since change is all we pay for this career …
You’ll soon have climbed up to a higher range
Of pay though: cops who had those jobs were fired—
Unhappily, that’s why you’re getting hired!