Poetry Corner


Three sick poems written by one sick champ

So much veg...om nom nom / Dana Payne

So much veg…om nom nom / Dana Payne

Author: John Loeppky

Food Guide Remixed 

In the final stages of editing,

the extra protein that comes from the thin film of debris under the dining room table

was removed in favour of another serving of milk,

and the cookie dough was deemed too degenerate for consumption.

The boogers consumed daily

were amalgamated into the alternative group

(so as to not offend the foodies)

and pet food as a midnight snack for inquisitive toddlers was ignored entirely.

Erased too, was the absolutely essential:

“How to eat greasy food and still eat greasy food” section,

pizzas adorning every page,

that looked to be smiling with pepperoni eyes,

have been replaced by salads that look like they have all just had a collective colonoscopy.

No longer can flies and dog hair be jokingly described as extra protein,

say the footnotes.

This could lead, experts warn,

to the illegitimacy of a document

that cannot help but consider middle aged men and women

the only body blueprint worth eating towards.

Suggested serving sizes for every age a new development,

considered revolutionary.

The pyramid is breaking down under the healthiness of it all.

The starches cannot handle the idea of propping up the fruit.

One thinks turning himself into raisin bread could be considered a compromise,

keep him flexible,

more likely to be consumed.

Fruit and Veg are at war with each other.

Harmony is no longer in the cards.

Tomatoes are the lost souls,

trying to deescalate the conflict.

Dairy think themselves prim and proper, nature’s gift.

Nobody questions the notion that whoever looked at a cow’s udders and thought,

I’m going to drink whatever comes out of there,

might have been a little off.

Next door, the chicken and the egg are engaged in an eternal argument

over who came first.

The fish wonders how good scrambled eggs on toast would taste,

maybe with a chicken sandwich to start,

and how blissfully quiet the meal would be.

Misuse of Prayer 

God is now the higher power of dating sites

Jesus a matchmaker for the romantically damned

a new-age resurrection

died on the cross so he could

play hide and go seek with your love life

The Lord is your GPS

the middle of nowhere quicker-picker-upper

the reason your passport is found

the courier’s delivery slip signed in heavenly scripture

He tasks himself with making sure that your car starts at -45

that someone drags your sorry ass out of the ditch

when you prayed for winter tires to come

He sent them to the dealership instead

God takes to Twitter

to give his sarcastic tendencies their cyber legs

rages over the fact he is unverified

must be the atheists, he thinks

The angels are your secretaries

making sure you get all your essential emails

and that your wife

doesn’t look at your browser history

The celestial update to Find My iPhone

the heavenly answer to, “Where in hell are my keys?”

and He might answer

“No, not in hell, they’re right beside the coffee pot.”

Good for many a prayer at church

for a heavenly escape door

fit for such occasions

That Kind of Poetry 

We got that old-fashioned poetry, like mamma used to make:

Cohen’s writing another love’s eulogy bar napkin style.

does that ever get old pen?

We got wartime verse baked in gunpowder,

fired out of infamy.

Look at Amis!

So drunk he doesn’t know we have his favourite on tap.

Let me mix a Frostian Martini,

it’ll lead you down the right road.

Jane Austin’s downing more cocktails than she should posthumously

Atwood dear, stop trying to “construct” that image, you’re ruining the peanuts.

Have a shot of Ginsberg flair,

It’ll lead you up the high road.

Kipling’s wondering if he should have another

as John Donne has one hell of a complicated back room confessional.

We got a good bottle of Grenadine

to sweeten up the middle ages.

Wayman and Babstock are eyeing each other up over realism.

Carver the innocent one, speaking sparse.

We got that writers block

to chip and chill the drinks with.

It’s almost 2,

you can tell ‘cause that Welshman in the corner is raging against closing time.

Forget the fucking mysticism, and pick up your god damn tab.

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