
-a poem written by Mickey and pasted on a picture.

-a poem written by Mickey and pasted on a picture.
There comes a time when life really stinks,
A day when the life force grows green-brown and sinks,
Yes, I am ill and my every breath kinks,
And I cough and I burp and the end of the nose pinks,
So, I gather together under the covers,
The rotten parts of me over which the fly hovers,
And cook them in heat of the dreams of old lovers,
And fantasy dreams, whose richness discovers…
The stories that make the sum of my life,
And memories of people who’ve hurt me with strife,
And good things and great things and details all mixed,
And stew while I’m sleeping til things are all fixed.


The Ixcanixian Cultural Ambassador from the Squeelix Sector of the Planet Ixcanix sent me an e-mail about his planet’s newest idea for a cultural exchange. He calls it the “Ixcanixian Spleegle Gorn Vorpaloop” which translates to the “Ixcanixian Interstellar Bad Poetry Challenge”. At least, it does if I am conjugating the verb “Vorpaloop” correctly. It is difficult because you have to drop the silent “y” before adding the “aloop” without causing it to explode. I know it is probably a very bad idea to present it here on this planet, but he talked me into it by promising to promote my novel Catch a Falling Star on his homeworld and at least two other planets in the Bugeye Federation.
Here are the rules for the alien poetry contest;
A sample of interstellar bad poetry is included here to inspire the kind of poetry we seek.
Ratzen Bargle’s Bisketoon (a love poem by Touperary Kloob, Poet Laureate of Antares VI)
Ratzen Bargle was a Doofus,
From the planet Rufus-Ploofiss,
And he had a lovely bride,
With a head not tall, but twice as wide.
She had three eyes and two were green.
She had the loveliest fleen you’ve ever seen.
And as they sat ‘neath a wayward moon,
He kissed his lovely bisketoon.
Immediately before naught was said,
She bit off his tiny three-eyed head.
And then she ate him bones and all
With sauce that really becomes the fall.
And so it is on Rufus-Ploofiss,
That males all die with one last roof-kiss.
Because they sit under wayward moons
With their lovely, hungry bisketoons.
Should you have the unfortunate urge to participate in this senseless and probably suicidal poetry contest, you are welcome to offer four-line poems in the comment section, or email longer poems to Mickey at mbeyer51@gmail.com. I will attempt to transmit the worst offers to the Ixcanixians as soon as I get my interstellar flooglebeeder transmitting again. I will also post winners in a future alien poetry blog.
I have been warned that prizes range from instant execution by the Lizard Lords of Galtorr Prime to a beat up copy of Mickey’s 2012 novel Catch a Falling Star. So, good luck with the bad poetry.
Filed under aliens, goofiness, humor, Paffooney, pen and ink, poem, poetry, satire, science fiction

In the Outhouse (a poem by a terrible poet)
So, here I sit for a while to ponder,
While I’m taking care of needs down yonder.
I read the paper’s news-less ruses.
And think that here, at least, the thing has uses.
The secret to success is having two girls and a goat.
Why is that, you ask?
I have no idea. I do not have two girls and a goat.
I am not remotely successful.
But what matters is not success.
What matters most is what is essential…
The meaning behind everything…
The code that makes us who we are..
.When we write it on the hard drives of our heads and hearts.
What is essential is the number of people living and dead that love you.
What is essential is the blood, sweat, and tears you poured into something… anything that you have determined is important enough… for a lifetime… to the bitter end of everything.
What is essential is pain you have endured for a purpose… success or failure not a part of the equation… because pain proves the truth of what you are suffering for.
What is essential is all the beauty you have observed and collected in your memory in the deepest of places where it changes you for the better.
What is essential is all the ugliness you have observed and confronted with a will to change it and wade into it up to your chin so that you can fight it until it changes you for the better.
What is essential is that you don’t let anyone tell you what is essential because only you can define it for you… and you better realize that time is running out… for us all… and you need it before you can approach the gates of Heaven.

You are old, Father Michael, and somehow not dead.
But you look really strange standing there on your head.
And you spend long old days drawing girls with no clothes,
When there’s nothing you could do if you had one of those.

Your life is all memories and nothing is real,
And you waste the whole day wondering, “What is the deal?”
You get nothing done but watching TeeVee,
And you cry a whole lot feeling sorry for Thee.

Your morals are cat-like for a very old cat.
And prim, proper people may hate you for that.
And if you pinch bottoms and make the girls wail…
You better look out, you are going to jail.
I must make a confession about crippling depression,
Cause today I have the blues.
It requires a concession of time for regression,
And dark days enveloping all views.
There is no progression in a working profession,
Cause clouds leave me missing all news.
I start the procession of blue notes in session,
And all melodies tend to be blues.
Filed under Paffooney, pessimism, poem, Uncategorized
Lately I have been having memory troubles. You know what I mean, when you walk through a doorway with a definite purpose in mind.and then, on reaching the other room, you have no earthly idea what that purpose was. It happens to me regularly. In fact, I can even start writing a sentences, and then I… What was I talking about? Oh, yes. I need to practice writing some more spectacularly bad poetry, before I forget how to do it.
Re-minders
Sometimes…
My mind slips out of my left ear…
And I can’t remember things.
So, I have to search under the table…
To find my mind…
And then I remember that that’s not how a mind works.
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Forgetfulness
Tell me now, before I forget…
What was I supposed to remember?
Was it something religious, important, and good…
That comes towards the end of December?
Was I supposed to buy something for somebody then?
I wrote a note to myself in September…
Oh, gosh! How could I ever forget that?
Now the fire is nothing but embers.
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Finding Fairies in my Hair
Why do I have elflocks all snarled up in my hair?
Surely some fairies have been twisting it up there.’
But if I can catch one and make him confess,
He claims I don’t comb it, and that’s why it’s a mess.
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Doofy Me
If I forget everything I ever knew,
Would it be possible that I am still smarter than you?
Old Socrates said he knew nothing at all.
And so he asked questions from Winter through Fall.
I hope I retain enough brain to remember
That everyone needs to wear clothes in December.
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Yep, I still obviously remember how to write spectacularly bad poetry. It is my contribution to literature. Virtually all poets will be able to say, “At the very least, I am a better poet than Beyer.”
Filed under autobiography, goofy thoughts, humor, Paffooney, poem, poetry

When the old mind wanders…
They tell you you’re just too slow.
But thoughts like mine drift everywhere,
And the edges of the universe… are a place to go.
Maybe I should write in red.
And argue with the voices
That rhyme inside my head.
And break the rhyme scheme
Here and there
Because of what they said.

Or maybe I should write in blue
Because I’ve been thinking in the nude
And laying all my secrets bare
Which really might be rude.

But the old mind wanders…
In the form of a poem,
And breaks and squanders
Tallest waves in mere foam.
Filed under artwork, clowns, goofy thoughts, humor, nudes, Paffooney, poem, poetry, strange and wonderful ideas about life

I have walked for a thousand years
Through a night stocked full of morbid fears
Past haunting shouts and cruel leers
As watchers dog me and drive my tears.
And yet in dreams, I focus sight
With eyes that search to see the light,
And I reach upward with all my might
To touch the answer which is right.
Filed under nudes, Paffooney, philosophy, poem, poetry, Uncategorized