Replica Mariupol Amusement Park Satire & Poetry (Draft 2)

The Mariupol Replica Amusement Park Near Azovstal (draft 2)
[The Haunted House Tour (draft 2)]

Certain Russian Oligarchs love
dangerous amusement parks.

The chief always says
if one guest dies accidentally
you attain three with largesse.

The building that I guard and show
is part of a haunted house tour —
scares for a known fee — to
include a haunted mill in lore
at no abhorrent extra cost

I’m a night watchman here
with a healing sore throat, but
it’s my job at my steel works

I work the graveyard shift
that begins at midnight and
people incognito who buy tickets
find scary regrets and woes
for entertainment, lo

although my building is just a
derelict steel plant dump
I still scream for believers
when the ghosts show up
though not everyone sees them.

We sell more tickets when I cry.
It doesn’t actually take a lot of acting skill
because the children often say, oh
they want to see the sun, and
my wife, her Mother, and our precious Mikhaila
spoke about sunshine on a video
in a bunker, a while ago.

Sometimes I recite a psalm
to keep the customers calm,
and away from a mockery
I cajole them into not breaking
the apparition rules:

Never tell them it’s “The Light,”
and not the sun they should seek

Besides seeking the sun,
some children ask
where Mommy is.

It can be a problem when
a Mom comes for her child
and they disappear. Then
there can be a shortage of ghosts.

Sad, but in this exhibit
we must consult
“Putnik’s Manual for
The Promulgation of Accidents in War”

The chief always says
if one customer blows away,
you gain back three.
So an accident happens.
Cruise missiles apparently
can malfunction,
or there’s a strategic cave-in,
it is said.

Since we don’t make steel anymore
all of this is necessary, and
we need a land bridge to
the Devil’s headquarters.

The Amusement Park in Replica Mariupol at The Azovstal Steel Plant

The Haunted House Tour (draft 1)
[this first draft is an outline: I haven’t done rhymes and rhythm yet. It may not be worth finishing.]

Certain Russian Oligarchs love
dangerous amusement parks.

The chief always says
if one customer dies,
you gain back three

The building that I guard and show
is part of a haunted house tour
that includes haunted factories
at no extra charge

I’m a night watchman here
with a sore throat, but
it’s my job.

I work the graveyard shift
that begins at midnight and
people who buy midnight tickets
find it scary

Although my building is just a
derelict steel plant
I still scream when
the ghosts show up
though not everyone sees them.

We sell more tickets when I cry.
It doesn’t actually take a lot of acting skill
because the children often say
they want to see the sun, and
my wife, her Mother, and our precious Mikhaila
said the same thing on a video
a while ago.

Sometimes I tell a story
to keep the customers calm
and cajole them into not
breaking the apparition rules:

Never tell them it’s “The Light,”
and not the sun they should seek

Besides seeking the sun,
some children ask
where Mommy is.

It can be a problem when
a Mom comes for her child
and they disappear. Then
there can be a shortage of ghosts.

Sad, but in this exhibit
we must consult
“Putnik’s Manual for
The Promulgation of Accidents in War”

The chief always says
if one customer dies,
you gain back three.
So an accident happens.
Cruise missiles apparently
can malfunction,
or there’s a strategic cave-in,
it is said.

Since we don’t make steel anymore
all of this is necessary, and
we need a land bridge to
the Devil’s headquarters.

Spring

[Don’t know what to do with this poem. Can’t seem to fix it.]

A kiss is planted
for the party. For

a blossoming in the morning, put
the flowers to bed with love, and
let the sun receive them with glee
yes

it casts
easy mellow spells in the sky:

billowing pillows thrown
like cloudy hats
and marshmallows

sprung from
a bouncing bed

The Supply of Mayonnaise and Ketchup

The Price of Taste

When a leader fades into
angry cognitive dysfunction,

there will be
a mayonnaise of malaise
drenching the meat of speech,
ketchup replacing blood in language,
and even the pricing of fries will be
forbidding the use of oil.

It’s a hot potato to
pass around, but for those

outliers not conforming to sloth:
let them eat words.

Poetry for Ukraine: Bucha (Draft 2)

Bucha (Draft 2)

They say
in the South the invaders
are like Colorado potato beetles,
dumb bastards in the Donbas;
in the North, war creatures can have
the façades of men, but rampaging,
they’re wicked trampling valenki
who have no pity, no remorse —
boots on the neck, on the breast,
teeth on the prey like war animals

There would be blood
and worse.

Many days ago,
staging in hell, they had emerged
from the bowels of Belarus
blundering demons who
in evil malice would became
the Butchers in Bucha

Few would predict anything.

A noted psychic said,
there would be
unending screaming
and bloody guts
trailing in defeat,
war crimes

But before…

There were days of delay.
It was a while ago that we asked you to close the skies.

Sometimes the sky is blue
sometimes it’s been yellow too
in better days of sunshine
when she’d played with joy

She had her eye on a boy
but she hadn’t dated yet
and he went off to war.

It was a while ago that we asked you to close the skies.
Yesterday would have been an auspicious day for Daryna
if the sky would have closed, because

she would not have thought that
God was hiding, but would have invited
all the birds to come inside, and then

after a prayer,
she’d perform a dance
like a rite of Spring for
her dogs and for the birds.

She could’ve imagined sky openings
behind the clouds, and would’ve
believed that after her dance
the sky would open to heaven

It was a while ago that we asked you to
give us planes. Yesterday
would have been an auspicious day

Today the birds were in the open sky,
the dogs were in the street agitated

Today,
Daryna ran out to catch her dog

Today,
there were more invading Russian Kolorady

Today under the sun in the street
the evil Russian Valenki
came like savage psychopaths

Daryna’s Mother screamed under a blue sky
because today was like yesterday, and

today Daryna’s Mother watched as
they shot Daryna’s dog
tore off Daryna’s clothes
and the savages
raped her in the street,
and yet it is said

the sky is open

Poetry for Ukraine: Bucha (Draft 0)

Bucha

They say
in the South the invaders
are like Colorado potato beetles,
dumb bastards in the Donbas;
in the North, pitiful creatures can have
the façades of men, but rampaging,
they’re wicked trampling valenki
who have no pity, no remorse —
boots on the neck, on the breast,
war criminals

Butchers in Bucha
down from Belarus

Days of delay.
It was a while ago that we asked you to close the skies.

Sometimes the sky is blue
sometimes it’s yellow too
in better days
and she’s played with joy

She’s had her eye on a boy
but she hadn’t dated yet
and he went off to war.

It was a while ago that we asked you to close the skies.
Yesterday would have been an auspicious day for Daryna
if the sky would have closed, because

she would not have thought that
God was hiding, but would have invited
all the birds to come inside, and then

after a prayer,
she’d perform a dance
like a rite of Spring for
her dogs and for the birds.

She could’ve imagined sky openings
behind the clouds, and would’ve
believed that after her dance
the sky would open to heaven

It was a while ago that we asked you to
give us planes. Yesterday
would have been an auspicious day

Today the birds were in the open sky,
the dogs were in the street agitated

Today,
Daryna ran out to catch her dog

Today,
there were more invading Russian Kolorady

Today under the sun in the street
the evil Russian Valenki
came like savage psychopaths

Daryna’s Mother screamed under a blue sky
because today was like yesterday, and

today Daryna’s Mother watched as
they shot Daryna’s dog
tore off Daryna’s clothes
and the savages
raped her in the street
and yet it is said

the sky is open

Centaur in Moscow with Missile (Draft 2)

Sometimes diabolical
desperation breeds a need for
science beyond curiosity, a
stunning terror for a leader to grasp
who sees winning as fiendish beauty

In science there can be elegance in
theory before application.

Behold the beauty and he says,
Come ye all to praise Science,
to embrace the vacuum bomb, and
the hypersonic missile of Putnik

Beauty is in the eye of the lover
delusion is in the ear of the hater.

See then of spectacles and of specks:

a gang leader perceives disrespect
like a small particle of pathology;
an autocrat perceives an insult
like a threat to empire.

It is dire to
dis’ a tyrant in a country without brioche
as megalomania is bred a first disease
before bread and butter toast uttermost,
before honey, udder milk, and cheese, because
before truth there is propaganda
(let them eat blue cheese)

Yet ask,
is there a prayer for political science…

Pray tell:
of those bellicose leaders
the porcine ones would
commandeer science for minions
to see and conquer prey
like wolves on deer

In science there can be elegance in
theory before application, like
the je ne sais quoi particle that the
“Conseil Européen pour la Recherche Nucléaire”
(CERN) produced for scientists, even Russians —

i.e. n.b. (nota bene) disCERN:
poor Dmitri of Mosow University
discoverer of the Piggs Boson,
trying to milk the subject of particles,
was expelled from CERN when
the Higgs Boson instead was declared
less bellicose in a toast to peace

Come ye all to
praise the art of war

Screams, squeals, and barks
are heard in Mosow, and
the son of a sow will soon
be bacon unless he magically
gains horse sense with
a radioactive Centaur elixir
to transform him, and he

unlike Catherine the Great
is successful in
the battle to safely
have sex with a horse.