doggerel….

I’m not sure what to call this piece: I had several titles in mind – “doggerel that is called doggerel”; “self-reverence”; “lynx hunt”; “punctuated equilibrium”; “arsy doggerel” – no matter; whatever the title, it’s a fall-flat-on-my-face piece….but I have nothing else to post….sharp-eyed readers may see what I was trying to do….I am indebted to Billy Mills for pointing me in the direction of some interesting poetry, although he may be less happy with the use I have made of it….

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Dislike it: really, you should fiddle and fret
(and quite probably you do; you toads….)
it’s contemptible, disingenuous; yet
you can’t help yourself, though it forbodes

a lack of judgement on your, the readers’, part:
don’t you have jobs to do, or silence to wean?
processing these words isn’t the way to art -
live a life: stay away from the profane screen….

So you want to be a reader? Don’t do it.
don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it;
because I’m the only one who can do it right;
don’t do it, don’t do it; alright, do it….

(Hint: watch out for the moose (should there be a moose
in this piece….which would be odd, n’est-ce pas?)
this is a doggerel about doggerel: how obtuse
would it be to mention, desperately,
a moose, along with vices and virtues?)

Still: palpably moot, or moose, or pamplemousse,
we have doggerel of St Vitus vitality
mooning the reader, moody or rude (you choose: )
the thing is, a doggerel should neither mean nor be….

Or if not a moose, then a mouse on the scuttle
to tickle and tease the depth out of these words
I wouldn’t use torture – that’s way too unsubtle
for what’ll result if you squeeze the absurd….

Dear Mr (or Ms) cynicalsteve, would you mind
awfully printing out your entire oeuvre
rhymes and all? Your doggerel is much maligned
and I’d like to malign it more; with verve….
Your faithful servant, Ms (nee Mr) Leurker.

(Dear Ms Leurker: have a heart!
Rhyming verse is hardly art!
It doesn’t really need to be
dismantled in your PhD….)

As poets condense, we doggerelists inflate
but we never forget who came first;
in a parallel universe, though, we create
and the poets respond with bad verse….

Still, the rhythmic drums have spoken and you’re
counting down the stanzas, hoping soon there’ll be an end:
and you’re in luck
my friends….