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

-a poem written by Mickey and pasted on a picture.
Poetry is life
Like life, it is sometimes fat and over-gorged
Like life, it is sometimes lean and starving
Like life, it sometimes rhymes
But that is only simile
Simile is not reality
Reality is metaphor
Metaphor is life
Like life, it has to mean something
Like life, it has rhythm, pace, and resonance
Like life, it sometimes rhymes
But this one doesn’t rhyme
And it may not really mean something
And it certainly isn’t reality
So, poet, you don’t know life!
And life is poetry
So you really don’t know poetry

Filed under artwork, commentary, goofy thoughts, humor, Paffooney, poem, poetry, strange and wonderful ideas about life

THE WISDOM OF THE LITTLE FOOL
A fool can’t really sum up all of life in a sentence.
But a fool tries.
A fool can’t really say something in immortal words.
Because a fool dies.
A fool can’t really do the job of the wise.
But never-the-less, the fool applies.
But a fool can write a really dumb poem,
And let it sit to draw some flies.

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 Let My Dog Write This Poem
MMMM-woof!
Smell that? Definitely Cat poop.
I love that smell.
And what’s that smell over there?
I mean right there!
Quit pulling on my leash! I have to smell it!
Ahh! Bird poop from a pigeon with a fatal disease.
And over there! Yes, stop holding me back!
Oh! A dead bird! Yum! Icky dead things taste great!
But it was a pigeon.
MMM-woof? Can dogs get pigeon diseases?

Why on Earth Did I Turn into a Nudist?
It is so embarrassing to admit it
I have no clothes to fit it
That feel as good as going bare
And wearing not even underwear
And the wind and the sun on my naked skin
Open my heart and let the sunshine in
I’ve never really felt so alive
As I feel while talking the naturist jive
And living life as a naked man
And doing the things that Adam can
How can it be such a stupid thing?
That makes my heart to dance and sing?

Thar Be Pirates, Yaaar!
The Pirates o’ Bank o’ Merricka has stabbed me wallet
And make thar monies by stealin’
And whooda thunk it? But the Pirates be many blokes
Who sells insurance or credick-card akkounts
And compounds the fie!-nance charges
At twelvety-hunnert thousing per cent
And makes thar monies the ol’ fashioned way
By hooks and by crooks but mosty by stealin’

And so… There you have it. Three poems about things that recently made sanity a bit harder to define when looking in the old mirror. I am not saying I have gone insane, but I do think I may be on the right road to go over the hill and around a couple curves to find the place where you have to go to find it.
Filed under humor, Paffooney, poem, poetry, satire, self portrait, strange and wonderful ideas about life
A while back I transmitted a weird alien poetry contest through this blog to the people of Earth. It was a contest for bad poetry. And obviously we only write good poetry on this planet as no entries from the native clothes-wearing primates of this planet were submitted. If you are unclear about the contest of which I speak, here is the link;
The Interstellar Bad Poetry Challenge

While no Earth primate entries were actually submitted (Magilla Gorilla’s entry was disqualified as he is a cartoon character and copyrighted by Hanna Barbera) we did get some entries from illegal aliens. Their contest entries are submitted here for your perusal. However, it is bad poetry. By definition, if you don’t have your Galaxian bad-poetry-reading glasses handy, you should proceed with extreme caution.
This first entry is from a random Space Goon. It is exceptionally bad poetry, and apparently the Goon who wrote it has no individual name. He appears to be one of many dumped on this planet by interstellar authorities in order to prevent them from doing any real damage to planets that matter.
Goon Verse
Goon-goon-goon
Goon is good
Goon will come
And live in your house
Goon will come
And eat your mouse
Goon-goon-goon
Why you no like Goon?
The second entry I intend to inflict on you is a very weird entry I got in container that was apparently filled with radio-active foof gas. While foof gas is apparently a deadly poison in most of the Milky Way, it is non-toxic to humans from Earth. The perpetrator of this poem would only identify himself (or herself… or itself) as Bing-bing the Laser Guy.
I Will Kill You
Bing-bing is hiding on Earth!
How can you not understand this?
If you publish my writings,
And allow the authorities to discover my presence,
I will come to your house and evaporate your head!
The rhythm of that poem is very poor, and the rhyme scheme is non-existent. But it is supposed to be bad poetry, after all. So I suppose it has just as much chance of winning as the rest of them.
The Mookian Space Elf submitted not only a bad poem, but 8 X 10 glossies of himself. He watches endless hours of PBS kid shows, educational cartoons, and inexplicable Boo Bahs and Teletubbies. I think he’s convinced himself that this contest is somehow an audition for a kids’ show. He claims to be able to sing and dance, as well as be funny, educational, and relentlessly cute.
Hire Me!!!
Ain’t I cute?
Ain’t I sweet?
I’ll give you diabetes so bad,
It will surely eat your feet!
Love me!
Dove me!
And give me so much money
That I’ll laugh so hard I pee!
Yes, if that is poetry, it is really bad poetry.
The final entry is from Ralph the Inexplicable. This amazing being has been on Earth since before there were dinosaurs, so it is possible he is more of an Earthling than we are. He is reputed to be incredibly wise, but his poetry was also hard to translate into English since it was all in ones and zeros. And I don’t speak binary code. So my translation may be less of a bad poem by Ralph and more of a bad poem made up by me.
Song of Slortcherill
Mee tok funni
Mee tok sloe
Leesen two mee
Ann emjoiy da show
Wheen Slortcherill sings
Da winners all brayk
Da kidoinks all screem
Anna moofins all bayk
I was warned that if I translated that poem with proper English spelling, it would fill your head with so much “wisdom”, your brain would melt. So I present it here according to Ralph’s specifications. I did read two of the lines with proper English spellings and felt my head grow distinctly hotter. So I wouldn’t risk thinking too hard about what the proper spellings are if I were you.
None of these entries will probably win the contest. They are all certainly bad poetry. But I am fairly certain that given the competition from this part of the Milky Way Galaxy worse does, in fact, exist out there… somewhere. And may you never be unfortunate enough to find it.
Filed under aliens, foolishness, humor, irony, Paffooney, pen and ink, poem, poetry, satire, science fiction

Christopher Marlowe is often sited as the real Shakespeare, a problematic assertion given that he would’ve been forced to write a number of plays after he was dead, giving new meaning to the term “ghost writer”. But I would like to add to the assertion that “Marlowe is NOT Shakespeare!” that I also believe he did not die as they claim that he did. Marlowe is a fascinating character of debauchery and misbehavior, intrigue and mystery, and undeniable genius. As a writer, he was a maverick and risk-taker, having begun the ascendance of the theatrical play as one of the heights of Elizabethan literature with his play Tamburlaine the Great, about the historical figure who rose from shepherd boy to monarch. This play, and its sequel, Tamburlaine the Great Part II, were among the very first English plays to be written in blank verse, meaning there is a very definite connection between the style of writing established by Marlowe and the later work of Shakespeare. It is probable that for a few years, Kit Marlowe was a member of the Gray’s Inn group along with Sir Francis Bacon and several other suspicious literary luminaries like Sir Walter Raleigh and possibly Ben Jonson. (I have to admit at this point that if I am wrong about the Stratford guy and he did write the plays, then he was a member of this group as well, because it was not closed to commoners, only to stupid people. The Stratford guy was in no way stupid or a villain, no matter what you may believe about the authorship question.) But here is where the link to Shakespeare’s plays and poetry both begins and ends. Yes, Kit Marlowe was a capable enough author to have written such sublime plays. He has all the individual skills to make up the whole. But if you read his masterwork, The Tragicall History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus, you will see that the voice, the unique literary style of the work is simply not by the same author. Although Shakespeare revisits some of the same themes that Marlowe used in his plays, his manner of development, handling of character, style of humor, and underlying conviction in the existence of God are all different and opposed to Marlowe’s. Marlowe is NOT Shakespeare. Shakespeare’s works have more in common with Bacon’s than Marlowe’s. And I have already said that, “Shakespeare is NOT Bacon… or eggs either.” And if I said it, it must be so. (Don’t throw eggs and tomatoes at your computer screen when you read this. Just call me stupid and vain in the comments like everybody else does.)

And an even more compelling reason to those of you who don’t obsess over reading Shakespeare and Marlowe and Ben Jonson is that, at the time Shakespeare’s plays were probably written, Kit Marlowe was busy either being stone cold dead, or, having faked his death, was busy being a secret agent for Queen Elizabeth.
And why would a goofball like me think that Christopher Marlowe cunningly faked his own death and went into his own thrilling quest to be like James Bond more than 300 years before Ian Fleming? Well, because I know how to read and am not generally bright enough not to believe what others have written about him and his connections to world of spying in Elizabethan times.
These authors have brought out the fact that Marlowe’s frequent absences from college and later public obligations coincide with things like the mysterious tutor called “Morley” who tutored Arbella, niece of Mary Queen of Scots, and a potential successor to Queen Elizabeth, in 1589. He was also arrested in the Netherlands for allegedly counterfeiting coins related to the activities of seditious Catholics. He was brought back to England to be dealt with by Lord Treasurer Burghley, the closest adviser to Queen Elizabeth, and was then not so much punished as let off the hook and even rewarded monetarily. Still think he was not a spy? Well, his demise probably came about through his relationship with Lord Francis Walsingham and his friendship with Walsingham’s son. You see, Walsingham was Elizabeth’s “M”, leader of her spies and intelligence units. After Walsingham died, there was deep concern that no one was still able to protect Marlowe from possible consequences of being both a homosexual and an atheist. (Being gay was obviously not as serious a sin as atheism for which torture and death penalties lay in wait.) It was possible that rival spies and nefarious forces could kidnap Marlowe and get information out of him that the Queen needed to be kept secret.
So, when Lord Burghley tortured Marlowe’s friend and sometime roommate, Thomas Kyd, into naming Marlowe a heretic and sending men out with a warrant to arrest Marlowe, Kit’s other friend, Thomas Walsingham probably warned Marlowe. The bar fight that supposedly ended Marlowe’s life was witnessed by two friends of his, Nicholas Skeres and Robert Poley, both provably con men and professional liars. The knife that stabbed him in the forehead above his right eye was wielded by Ingram Fizer, another of Marlowe’s disreputable friends, allegedly over an unpaid debt. Fizer, of course, though he freely admitted killing Marlowe, was acquitted of the murder. And the coroner’s report is suspect. Rules of investigation were not followed, and the body was never independently identified by someone other than the three friends at the scene of the crime. And the body was hastily buried before anyone else could get a close look at it.

I am not only telling you that I believe Christopher “Kit” Marlowe was NOT Shakespeare… or eggs either (though that joke doesn’t really work here), but I believe he didn’t die the way it has been reported to us by history. And why do I believe these things? Because I think the story of Christopher Marlowe is a really great story, and it exists as a story whether it is historically true or not.
What to Write About Today…
I have to admit it. I am pretty goofy.
Probably not Harpo Marx levels of goofy.
But close.
So, I have gone back and looked at what I have been writing about during the course of my relentless three-year write-a-thon. I am artist enough to recognize patterns. At least, I can recognize the big and obvious ones. Okay, I admit it, sometimes, while thinking, I am really only pretending to think. That makes me kinda like Harpo, doesn’t it?
I reread one of what I think are my best works just now because somebody viewed it online for some reason I will never know. The essay is Toccata and Fugue in D Minor written on March 23rd of 2017. In that essay, I compare a super-condensed version of my life story to Johan Sebastian Bach’s masterwork, one that is represented in Disney’s masterwork Fantasia. My thesis was basically, “Living life is like a piece of classical music.” Yep, total nonsense.
But that is not nearly as nonsensical as the nonsense I wrote in The Dancing Poultry Conspiracy Theory. That one should make me ashamed of myself. Not to mention the danger inherent in revealing a thing that governments of the world have worked so hard to suppress the knowledge of. There is something seriously wrong with any government who would let wackos use the mysterious martial art of Ententanz Fu on anybody.
I also fairly recently wrote a poem about writing poetry. It was called The Secret Behind Poetry and in the course of the poem I carefully reason out that I have no idea at all what the secret behind poetry is.
I am epically good at writing bad poetry. That is why I was chosen to host the Interstellar Bad Poetry Challenge which I did badly, getting no entries at all from Planet Earth, and being forced to settle on the submissions I posted in The Ixcanixian Bad Poetry Challenge
As I have not yet been vaporized by Ixcanixian skortch rays, then I guess I did the challenge badly enough to satisfy the intergalactic poetry lords of Ixcanix. I offer that here as proof that I am really pretty bad at writing poetry.
I am also pretty good at taking an idea and turning it upside down to get a good look at its bottom and to flatten its top a bit. I did that in an essay called Pessimism as a Super Power.
I suppose it is really about losing a writing contest, but the thesis is valid. One can save themselves a lot of grief by always expecting the worst outcome to happen. You are never disappointed according to what you expected unless it is turned into a pleasant surprise. I also admit that is really a Benjamin Franklin idea, but if you turn Ben upside down, he’s already a bit flat on the top of his bald head and he has an interesting pantalooned bottom. (That is supposed to be a joke, so try not to be too disgusted with me.)
So, what will I actually write about today? What is the pattern I am supposed to follow? Well, it seems pretty obvious, I am basically unpredictable. So maybe today I will just recycle some old posts and pretend I have been thinking.
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Filed under commentary, conspiracy theory, goofiness, goofy thoughts, humor, poetry
Tagged as Metacognition