Ars Poetica

A poet’s feet can be disgusting things.
I see them at the gym: hairy, bent,
Arthritic sets of bones, adorned with rings
To make each toe look sexier. Their scent

Defies description. While Limburger cheese
Left ripening a bit too long comes close—
A yeast infection closer—even these
Analogies fall short. I hold my nose.

I ask in a squeaky voice, “Why scatter warts,
Instead of rose petals, in the shower?
What kind of gift’s a wart? None. The worst.
A waste of talent and abuse of power.

Give one good reason why your words exist—
Or stop writing. See a podiatrist.”

To a Parsnip

Inspired by Catullus and offered without one scintilla of commentary*.


To a Parsnip
After Catullus

For Eshu


Goodbye to Heaven’s alabaster root,
Sweet and dirty, hard and cold, a friend
Whose name escapes me now, tall and cute,
Uncircumcised, six inches end to end.

It pains me now to weigh him in one hand,
A knife the other, skinning him for stew:
But there’s more meat on Mr. Parsnip than
My friend possessed. It feels more human, too.



*This be an emended version, dedicated our faithful commentator Eshu, who hath found our original version funny, but our conclusion lacking Catullian bite. We hope he findeth our present alterations more to his Classical fancy. We wish for nothing more from Heaven than happy readers. God be wi’ you all. (Especially the Parsnip.)