A Poem..
in the style of W H Auden
Moon Landing Whingeing
It is understandable the Poets should whinge it up
over so great a triumph of unpoetic manhood,a complaint
it would not have occured to women to make,
made possible only because
we like to score with the coeds with a minimum
of manly bother. Cry "phallus" and pout
and whinge about the partriarchal rules
that poems must rhyme and busy crewcut
boys with calculators get all
the accolades. A pose, a gesture
but who's crap is given? We were always
more ready with witty riposte
than substance, and more adroit with
glib, pompous, appealing phraseology that
appears to say something deep and profound on
first blush if you read it quickly enough and
are afraid of appearing dull and provincial in
front of your date so you blurt out a pensive
"hmmm" just she doesn't take your silence as
a sign of said provincial dimness than we were with
following up on the opportunity to steal said
damsel away from Mr Provincial Dungbeetle from
Cow College USA with our sullen, dark pensiveness because
even though she act all liberated and sensitive
to the soul music of the lonely poet pouring his mind fruit
out in verse as a gallant gesture of respect and love for
her noble and majestic feminine soul that yearns to fly
free of the gilded bars of her Patrician cage and
plumb the Stygian depths of her sweet, flowering,
sensuous hearth of life-passion with the boyish echo
of that soul which is I, alas it turns out that the dalliance
is but a cruel tease, and Mr Phallic Dungbeetle with
his engineering degree and worldly ambition to spew
his venomous brain-sperm across the galaxy on top
of his smooth, erect shafts of nitro-burning man
fuel takes his conquest back to his sterile little
suburban clone-cubicle to enjoy the ravishing passion
unleashed by my sensitive but smoldering poet's
soul.
Blasted, friggin Moon Landing!!!
Moon Landing Whingeing
It is understandable the Poets should whinge it up
over so great a triumph of unpoetic manhood,a complaint
it would not have occured to women to make,
made possible only because
we like to score with the coeds with a minimum
of manly bother. Cry "phallus" and pout
and whinge about the partriarchal rules
that poems must rhyme and busy crewcut
boys with calculators get all
the accolades. A pose, a gesture
but who's crap is given? We were always
more ready with witty riposte
than substance, and more adroit with
glib, pompous, appealing phraseology that
appears to say something deep and profound on
first blush if you read it quickly enough and
are afraid of appearing dull and provincial in
front of your date so you blurt out a pensive
"hmmm" just she doesn't take your silence as
a sign of said provincial dimness than we were with
following up on the opportunity to steal said
damsel away from Mr Provincial Dungbeetle from
Cow College USA with our sullen, dark pensiveness because
even though she act all liberated and sensitive
to the soul music of the lonely poet pouring his mind fruit
out in verse as a gallant gesture of respect and love for
her noble and majestic feminine soul that yearns to fly
free of the gilded bars of her Patrician cage and
plumb the Stygian depths of her sweet, flowering,
sensuous hearth of life-passion with the boyish echo
of that soul which is I, alas it turns out that the dalliance
is but a cruel tease, and Mr Phallic Dungbeetle with
his engineering degree and worldly ambition to spew
his venomous brain-sperm across the galaxy on top
of his smooth, erect shafts of nitro-burning man
fuel takes his conquest back to his sterile little
suburban clone-cubicle to enjoy the ravishing passion
unleashed by my sensitive but smoldering poet's
soul.
Blasted, friggin Moon Landing!!!
posted by Anonymous at 3:01 PM
6 Comments:
LMTHRO !
Wonderful !
As a piece of satire, I give you 10/10 for righteous passion, and 0/10 for target identification.
Why would Auden write a poem criticising the moon landing? He was, by the way, a lover of engines and industry.
It's about the oddity of humans. The key line is:
from the moment/the first flint was flaked this landing was merely/a matter of time.
I thought the key line was
Our apparatniks will continue making
the usual squalid mess called History:
all we can pray for is that artists,
chefs and saints
may still appear to blithe it.
That's not about the moon landing though.
Also, even the most perfunctory research on Auden would have told you that
1) he could do rhyming populism pretty well.
and
2) He had less than zero interest in scoring with female coeds.
Sure, deconstruct my fledgling attempt at satire. Nip my talent in the bud. Gee, if everyone did their RESEARCH, and got to the know the REAL MAN before going off half-cocked on a spittle-flecked spoof, we wouldn't have much satire, would we squire? Nah, we'd just have a lot of mamby pamby "Oh, I can see where he's coming from" and "I can respect that point of view, even if it sullies the sacred memory of the Moon Landing". Lets join hands and sing Kumbaya while we're at it! OK? Let's go... Kumbaya, my Lord, Kumbaya.... c'mon Brit! Kumbaya, my Lord...
You just want the DD poetry franchise for yourself. Admit it!
It's a fair cop.
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