Used to be plump and juicy,
now shriveled, shrunken —
Robbed of their rotund allure,
their lives stolen,
bound for the depths
of some junk food-ravaged colon.
Plucked in their prime,
packed in tight boxes —
Fruit without flesh,
dried up paradoxes.
Granola gap fillers,
portions for foxes.
Oh, to be dairy-drowned
— fuh Godsakes —
in a desolate landscape of
Nothing, now, but
Inspired by the classic diner scene from Benny and Joon (1993), and a lifelong aversion to raisins which I apparently share with Jenny N Olson.
There is also a reference in the poem to a Rilo Kiley song — good vibes coming your way if you identify it in the comments.
translated by Joe Váradi and published here with the permission of the original author Lackfi János
Mr. Melon, the super, carries a giant
broom wherever he goes, it’s one of his weapons
as if he were a knight with a lance, or a pole-wielding
samurai, he keeps the peace, as he likes to say
constantly, if he didn’t do it, then
who would, all joking aside, who indeed,
and it’s true, we have no idea, who would
make the rounds, all high and mighty,
so everyone could hear him from a distance
and fear him from a distance,
who would drive off the stray dogs
and cats, who would shoo away…
which defies comprehension, at its core.
Some just stay silent. With eyes that lack
focus, stare and sway forward and back,
to a deep-within cadence. Or,
in best case, stand, shove the chair aside
and, without a backward glance, except
in thoughts repressed, silhouette
aquiver, leave with uneasy stride,
ask not for a light, to set oneself afire,
no daring thoughts on train tracks,
into the ravine, fleeting dark desire —
— what was I to do? Without cracks
in my cold stare, pull out a piece and fire
at you, in cinematic climax?
from popular contemporary Hungarian poet Krisztina…
made you look
ㅤㅤdidn’t I —
ㅤㅤㅤㅤtry my fresh
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤit’s a fake
ㅤㅤmake me sick
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤgive one lick
'bout how you
why are you
ㅤㅤㅤㅤwhat do you
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤhold most dear?
what makes your
ㅤㅤjuices flow —
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤhope for dough?
not the com-
ㅤㅤㅤㅤsense of cama-
don’t you feel
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤcause you … write?
Behold poor Hogan Torah and his Ex
— Alas, the lengths we go to for some sex —
For years he praised her highfalutin verse,
Although he found it labored and perverse.
“Which word artiste shall I compare thee to?
Shel Silverstein? Bukowski? Angelou?”
She soaked up all the ornate compliments,
And let her artsy ego grow immense.
“Sweet pea, I’m going back for my M.A. —
One thing. I’m broke, and need, like, 30k …”
What choice indeed for our love-tainted friend?
Left pennyless and blue-balled in the end …
The greatest tragedy, in all this strife?
He’s spurned the art of poetry — for life.
I graced the greatest album cova'
Of the Nineties' grunge rock era
Bore my boyhood for all to see …
Mom! You made a meme out of me!
Dad!? Why did you think this was cool?
Drop your infant into a pool —
Photograph me gasping for air
Swear I thought I’d perish down there!
Oh, you thought I won’t remember
Floating with a dangling member?
Thought that I’d blissfully assume
That I was still in Mommy’s womb?
And, what about that fishing hook? …
to be sung to the music of Bon Jovi’s Dead or Alive
It’s All the Same —
Only the dates will change
I don’t bother to think up new phrases
I merely … rearrange
Welcome to my journey —
Yeah you’re kind of stuck with me
A writing guru said to do this
And I’ll get better … just wait and see
ㅤㅤCause I’m a Blogger
ㅤㅤFast and Furious I Write
ㅤㅤAnd I Publish … Dead or Alive
ㅤㅤI Mush Pub-liiiissshh!! Dead or Alive
All you serious writers
Be original, if you must —
While you nurse your masterpieces
I’m gonna leave…
by Joe Váradi
Life’s not easy
for the snail,
hauls his home with
Bothered by an
itchy tail —
tries to scratch,
to no avail!
Dapper is the
fancy zoot suit
crawly thriller —
cocoon filler …
Poor old mantis
got the blues,
lost his fav‘rite
dancing shoes —
looking left and
right for clues,
praying for some
set aflame the
twinkling eyes —
in the hive
quite a dive —
all drones on deck
reproductive drive …
Rewards come in
gifts and trophies,
plaques and medals,
wedding beds co-
vered in petals,
hugs and kisses,
prepped by Missus …
Bones, and pats on
head by owner,
canine love re-
turned by Rover,
belly rubs for
prizes by es-
teemed committees …
On this site, too,
options abound —
glut of choices
to express their
leave their marks on
cherished two cents.
And, of course, there’s
the old nifty
one to fifty …
Outside was summer.
Musical notes hung in the air.
Our eyes darted around, from the plastic covering stretched across the kitchen table, to the wallpaper, to the coffee percolator on the stovetop, then back, occasionally meeting another set of eyes, another blank stare.
The arc of the song’s narrative slowly took shape, line by haunting line, amid the strumming acoustic guitar and the reed organ’s sustained notes.
We were guests, in this sleepy provincial capital town that we had called home several years before. Visitors, now — from overseas, no less — the streets, the sounds, the smells were all…