Issue 19, Summer 1958
Pursued by a tiger in his sleep
he turned himself into a horse turd
and woke to find
he’d been eaten by sparrows.
Advice to a poet who would win prizes:
Step craftily around this ruin
and that rickety tower
lest you topple their gods.
For a billion dollars in cash
and a hatful of Purple Hearts
What is the moral equivalent
of a bayonet in the belly?
Said the old doctor to the young doctor:
There are three roads to success.
Per os, per rectum, and per vagina.
Choose your orifice.
Funeral of a Poet
Said the chief mourner to the gravedigger:
We don’t suspect any foul play.
If he was murdered,
he was murdered by friends.
Giotto drew a perfect circle,
freehand, with a brush.
When he finished he had two choices,
to sell it as a toilet seat,
or save it for a halo.
When the idol-maker lost faith in his gods
he put time-bombs in their bellies.
With the legacies from the pious dead
the priests built a new temple.
When they came to take him away
he was measuring with a piece of string
the distance between the picture on the wall
and the picture in the mirror.