Ogden Nash’s 1975 poetry collection, I Wouldn’t Have Missed It, contains an intriguing index of last lines. So of course…
All errata stands.
alming on the corner of went and gone.
And from the sodden corner belched,/ A-man.
And so soaking,/ again soils the soul.
and learned their lot —/ Too late.
and lick it off themselves.
And back to their scrabbled lea.
And the princess still goes uncorked.
[And scene].
And goes back and back/ to the ancestral wold.
Ashes. . . Dust. . .
a terrible case/ of holytosis.
At last.
A tender heart broken on the rack of love.
because he can.
brought her home, and wonder why?
He That Diggeth A Pit Shall Fall Into It
“Bury me not, bury me not. . .”
but, lo, the ring remains.
Damn all my ayes,/ the noes have it.’
Dear Rosenkrantz, Dear Guilderstern. . .
Do did done
Drink, drank, drunk.
Drinks get spilled.
Drowned in the muck, headunderbutt.
Evermore ever on
every man loves/ the smell of his own farts, so maybe not
fall/ into their ordered (or not)/ Predetermined spaces.
Fiddling her lovely self.
For his wordly curse.
For this?
Fucked (off).
“Git thee to a slummery.”
he’ll gyre and jape even at the wake.
he needs must/ soak in it.
Her unfelt touch beguiles/ the wanton longing.
His spirit rose withal.
Hopes to wow them one last time
How passed he on the last laugh’s curse.
If not the end, why not stay behind?’
in his dense dunce mind.
in its ortho-metrics.
(in the good sense. . .ha)
Is That Analog In Your Pants Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?
Into the callous coldness stared.
Iodine will not save one/ from the piss-rain fallout.
Might not be all that bad.
more often seems lesser so.
Not a ripple tittled nor iota jotted. . .
not enough to save her/ from the obligate cess.
Not so very far from the push-off point.
not the sap.
Of a new genus species.
of some saint’s hallowed pissings.”
one who would face/ The dark as well as the light.
only to spill its wanton seed/ into a cold uncaring sea.
Or not.
Petitions for deliverance/ From pooh’s last stand.
pithing off the former desires.
The (Very Short) Ballad of Dick Limply
She dimly waits in the cool stall/ To be milked again.
So as to be sure all the sad luck/ Will drop down.
So, inside out he turned to poetry instead.
So on the night.
So that if the light/ Strike just right/ Its truth might shine.
(sour smile).
‘Stead of fiddlin’ ‘pon the poop deck.
Still in the dark.
Take us forward unto the end.
The blank glares back in full.
The light goes down.
The light resides not there./ But neither here.
the long, longing night.
The music of the spheres/ drowned out by the cacaphonia.
The only ever ever.
the smell of his own farts, so maybe not).
the substantiation sought.
The pearl dissolves/ in the new-dawned day.
the vilest sin’s aggrievance.
To be or not.
“Top of the mournin’. . .”
[translation unclear]
trickled torrent will not be much missed.
Until the very end.
what might have been/ if only she. . .
Who has done his part to keep the record balanced.
who’s more attuned to what’s what/ and what’s not?
poetastrophy 