Rude Rhymes

On amazon

While standing at the vernissage,
Engaged in idle badinage,
I fabricate some persiflage
To linger by your décolletage,
A pair of turrets on the Taj!
Could one actually massage
Such an obvious mirage?
Employing tricks of espionage,
At risk of social sabotage,
I infiltrate your entourage
And press my nose to your corsage.
Were you under my British raj
I’d put you through some strict dressage,
Inflict an oscular barrage
And park my tank in your garage.
The heart is a kite,
It’s heavy, it’s light.
At maximum height
It quickly takes fright,
Descends to the trite,
Then turns itself right,
Out-races its plight,
A speck in the sight
And, feeling its might,
It shudders in flight,
The string stretching tight,
A moment of night,
Then falls away, slight.
Narcissus,
In watery abysses,
Condemned to cooler blisses
Than this is,
Hisses
That he misses
His own kisses.

Vicious fishes
With malicious wishes,
In a few expeditious swishes,
Squish us,
Find us delicious, 
And don't even do the dishes.

This particular
Funicular
Is so perpendicular
That it looks testicular
As it climbs up the prickular.
And when it goes quickuler
There’s nothing ridiculer.

It's allergy season and the nose is always something of an issue,
So instead of rubbing it between your breasts I thrust it into a tissue,
But I miss you.
O'Flaherty's
Peculiarity,
His essential verity,
Is not the disparity
Between his wit’s angularity
And his crass jocularity,
His overfamiliarity
Disguised as sincerity.
No.  
O’Flaherty’s
Singularity,
To do him all charity,
Is a vulgarity
Of such severity,
Such muscularity,
Such bald temerity
That it amounts to barbarity.
It achieves a similarity
To hilarity,
Though with no great regularity,
In fact with regrettable rarity,
And not a trace of dexterity.
Poor O’Flaherty,
Caught on this polarity,
Will pass into posterity
Poisoned by the asperity,
Of this parody.
I wonder
If the thunder
Blundered
When it sundered
My funder
And sent him under
Before he surrundered
His plunder.
Could anything be stunneder?
Makes you punder.
The essence
Of tumescence
Is acquiescence 
In the presence 
Of pleasance,
A coalescence
Of adolescence
And antidepressants,
Acceptance
Of the evanescence
Of the excrescence,
Detumescence,
Repentance, 
A possible paternity sentence,
And approaching senescence.
The salesman of certain eases
Does pretty much as he pleases
With whatever chances he seizes,
And the frivolous rhyme words he teases.
But if his honey-babe so much as sneezes
He freezes,
Embraces her tightly and squeezes
Till she wheezes,
Protects her from insolent breezes,
Does searches on several diseases,
And counts up the gods he appeases,
Even Jesus.


FROM HIS COY MISTRESS 
 Purge
Urge
To surge
On verge
Or we shall no more merge.
Randall
The vandal
Sucks your sandal
And’ll
Dandle
With a candle.
Who knows how the band’ll
Handle
The scandal!

Snapes
Tapes
Grapes
To apes’
Napes,
Drapes
Their gapes
With capes
And escapes
To traipse
Landscapes
Toward new scrapes.

Ache
At stake
For fake
Rake
Making break.
On the make.
Give is take
Is jake.
Snake
Takes
Cake.
Lucky break.
Dumb flake.

Uncouth
Youth
In phone booth
Bleeding ruth,
Ear to truth.

Hate
Mate’s
Weight?
Won’t deflate?
Anticipate
Giving Kate/
Nate
Gate?
Wait!
Cogitate!
Neither fate
Nor plate:
Mental state!
Failure to sate!
Typical trait.
Don’t calumniate.
You too are stale mate—
Overweight,
Out of date,
Bald pate,
Loose plate.
Not so great.
Can irritate.
Too late
To eliminate.
Create!
Titillate!
Rejuvenate!
Treat like date!
(May have to fellate.)
All you do is prate,
You ingrate!

Flung
Like dung
Wrung
From bung,
Slung
Among
Those hung
From low rung.
Stung.
Unsung.
Need young
Tongue.

Luck
 Stuck.
Fuck!
Out of pluck!
Out of suck.
Had I a buck
I’d shuck
The ruck,
Plow my own muck,
Huck!

No stuff,
Not even to bluff!
Hung by the scruff,
Handled rough—
Stuff this guff!
When’s enough?

Unbreath,
Death.
Stone deaf
Gravel text,
Death
Less dead.

Hone
Own
Bone
Alone,
Grown
On loan
From thrown
Stone.
Nose of crone,
Woes unknown,
Flown,
Ungrown!
A moan
Of one’s own.

Smart
Tart,
Cupid dart.
Start love chart:
Part
Heart,
Part
Other part.
Hitch your cart
Whereso’ere thou art.
When I fart
It’s art.

Rock
Cock.
Walk,
Eye of hawk,
Choose from flock.
Don’t gawk:
Stalk,
Block,
Talk,
Mock,
Shock,
Check clock,
Open lock,
Ease into dock.
Does she balk?
Hard knock.
Go home to warm sock.

Words on page,
Act your age,
Disengage
Childish rage.
Coprophage
In the cage,
Crazy sage.
Decent wage
Hard to gage.

Suggest –
In fact request –
Your breasts,
Undressed,
Caressed,
Rest
Best
In nest
Pressed
To my chest.
Care to test?
Obsessed?
You guessed.
Stressed.
Depressed.
Un-yessed.
Exiled from fest.
No jest.
Detest.
Be my guest.
At your behest.
Feel blessed.
OUCH! 
Distressed
Lest
You ingest
My breast!

Robert MacLean is an independent filmmaker. His recent The Light Touch is on Amazon Prime, Tubi and Scanbox, and his 7-minute comedy is an out-loud laugh. He is also a novelist, a playwright, a blogger, a YouTuber, a film reviewer, a literary critic, and a stand-up comic poet. Born Toronto, PhD McGill, taught at Canadian universities, too cold, live Greece, Irish citizen. No brains, but an intellectual snob.

“I was beastly but never coarse. A high-class sort of heel.”

The Light Touch on Amazon Prime

The Natural Wish to Be Robert MacLean





Posted by No comments:

A Note on the Renoirs, Père et Fils

Young Pierre-Auguste studied the work of Jean-Antoine Watteau at the Louvre, and they share an uncomplicated love of pleasure, of beautiful women,
and of parties, which in Watteau, who was a sick man, can have a melancholy feel.
As Walter Pater puts it, “He was always a seeker after something in the world, that is there in no satisfying measure, or not at all.” Renoir too paints parties in the countryside.
“No Marx, no Freud,” says Kenneth Clark, “just a group of ordinary human beings enjoying themselves.” Here’s a Renoir girl enjoying herself.
Jean Renoir the filmmaker, like the Rococo master, also gives us dress picnics in the woods.
And in The Rules of the Game, an extended party, he takes the role of Octave, the wistful outsider, in love with the pleasures of these people, and with the lady of the house, but himself a funny-looking guy, not one of them, a fool—
—like Watteau’s Gilles. 

Robert MacLean is a bad poet and an independent filmmaker. His The Light Touch is on Amazon Prime, Tubi, Scanbox, and YouTube, and his 7-minute comedy is an out-loud laugh. He is also a screamingly funny novelist, a playwright, a blogger, a YouTuber, a reviewer of films, a literary critic, and a stand-up comic poet. Born Toronto, PhD McGill, taught at Canadian universities, too cold, live Greece, Irish citizen. Committed to making movies that don't matter. No brains, but an intellectual snob.


In Praise of Older Women


Posted by No comments:

The most sensuous and mysterious of paintings, Giorgione's TEMPESTA—an electric moment before the rain:

Posted by No comments:
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)