Jough: Po Mo
But why have a “National Poetry Month”?
The mainstream and popular activities in American culture don’t have, or need, a “national month.” You won’t see a “National Watch TV Month,” or a “National Football Month” because those are activities that people engage in without encouragement or convincing.
“Black History” and “Women’s History” months represent a subjugated sub-culture of American life. Never mind that women make up more than fifty percent of the American population and are therefore a majority. The fact is that the histories of these two groups was probably under- appreciated at some time, at least enough for someone to think that it may help to make a “Month” for their groups.
Poetry too is a ghettoized genre of American reading. It seems that most people respect poetry, are perhaps a little afraid of it, think that it’s beyond them, it’s boring, etcetera. So in order to sell more books of poetry, the AAP created “National Poetry Month” to bring poetry into the National Spotlight of the Under-Appreciated. It’s too bad that most of the poetry that they promote is of the vaguest and most unappealing kind being written. It’s necessary, though, when listening from their local shopping mall, for people to be able to fully understand a poem by hearing it only once. Any poems that require deeper readings to unlock their hidden treasures would be unsuited to the task of providing background noise while people pound down Big Macs in the food court.
National Schmational: Do We Really Need A “National Poetry Month”?
Copyright © by Jough Dempsey, 4/4/02, http://www.plagiarist.com
Rival Seats (Pt II)
✿ Cheeky display of sustainable bio-development ✿
♥ Ergonomic undersides revealed ♥
★ No ifs, Andes, or butts ★
Now to yon southern cities turn thy view,
And mark the rival seats of rich Peru.
[from: The Columbiad , Book II, by Joel Barlow]
Naming Wild Hippo
Darkness slays the sun. Descending, he dies.
To hide his glowing countenance and wait;
Until his resurrection flood our skies
With promise of a greater solar state.
Oh mourn and weep, ye gaining shades of night;
An orange sunset lingers in the west.
The trumpet sobs a reveille; the light
Is dwindling on the presidential fest.
And cypresses are sighing in their shame
For Orange Man has forfeited his game.
The technocrats and leftists, as a mass
Opposed his righteous reign with godless spite.
Not once did they relent, but dogged his ass
In jackal-packs still slavering to bite.
And yet he is deplorably adored,
Nor friend nor foe politically bored.
Vile virtue-signalers (with none to show),
Despised all those who dared support his plan;
And prideful with each whining coward blow
Confirmed themselves inferiors to the man.
Pink feminists, at odds with all that’s right
Displayed themselves as pussies in the fight.
They could not stand the mention of his name.
The Globalists and other Euro-trash,
With Luciferian bankers, void of shame,
Resume their one-world plotting in a flash;
Preparing for re-set. (We wish they would
Let God reset them for their own damn good.)
So DRUMPF‘s Fourth Reich must sadly reach its end,
And Jared’s Nazi wife return her shoes.
Trump’s Völkisch warriors shall no more defend
Republics that weak RINOs all refuse;
And Milquetoast Mitt, and Bush, his parting hail
Grown tired of winning, longing yet to fail
My Einsatzgruppen uniform: no more
To wear the holy garment in my pride.
My shimmering hood and robe I now must store;
Well-pressed, I lay them tearfully aside.
My lynching rope I coil with loving care,
My Ku-Klux armband nevermore to wear.
Alas, the fascist father-figure goes;
His bigot minions, all my own, lament.
Misogynists and racists at the close
Have lost their weary way and all is spent.
He wasn’t dictatorial enough;
We all grew tired of winning. It was tough.
But wait; a zephyr stirs the orange grove.
The dusk has not yet sighed its final breath:
Once more a scent of citrus wafts above . . .
Twas’ premature, their festival of death.
Then TRUMP arises, grinning, from the bier
And all who who wished him gone recoil in fear.
Fresh horror now the adversaries sweeps;
The trembling crypts foreshadow his rebirth.
Progressive politics despairs and weeps
While liberal dread supplants their vengeful mirth.
Then Donald rises, leering like a ghost
To fill with panic every heartless host . . .
Mere hopium, this horror-movie plot.
It looked like he might pull it off— but no.
Now darkness teaches light what it is not
And half the nation jeers at him to go.
Healing urged—but fake. Polarization
Shall characterize our waning nation.
Hopes of resurrection vanish with night.
The scapegoat’s legions waken from the dream
To seek nocturnal solace from the fight:
The tepid normie water’s middle stream.
And Q-tard numerologists learn code.
(The rest of us just wonder what we’re owed.)
Saint Orange must diminish, half impeached;
And sunset velvet now becomes his hue.
The ballot urns of Georgia never reached;
Our judges sat to stifle what we knew.
The monoparty’s monkeys steal the show;
His puppet masters hiss him. Let him go.
And Dixie’s juiceless orchards sing his dirge.
The willows hang their boughs in leafless grief . . .
Disgust for all the traitors starts to surge;
And clown-world tries but cannot bring relief.
Orange Savior’s promise: undelivered
The funeral expires—and all is withered.
Who was that orange man?
I wanted to thank him.
https://www.bitchute.com/video/KxbtIYOXm0qB/
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