The Landlord

The management company decreed that there should be an inspection of all the units in the building, just the safety appliances you understand, just a moment of your time, you need not even be home and truly we’d rather you were not. And so it was that I was home to receive that knock at the door for that brief inspection, truly brief, no longer than a rectal exam but alas even less pleasant…

I exaggerate.*

Yet it did leave me feeling rather venomous toward the company and that brought to mind a long gone poetry ‘zine that I had subscribed to back in the day when I had hallucinatory aspirations to be a poet. I saved it for this poem by the late John Dickson. I saved it for just an occasion like this. I should have saved it with the aspiration to write as well as this:

From “Poetry &”, December 1976, scanned by Roman.

Poetry & was edited by JoAnn Castagna. It was printed on newsprint and folded to letter size, an inexpensive way of printing a larger press run. I can imagine distribution being something more than a chore. In any case, I don’t recall the ‘zine lasting much beyond Volume 1.

VoilĂ . With this post, I’ve had a revenge of sorts, the best kind: mostly imaginary.

* Also, it was as much me as them. Regardless, Dickson’s poem addresses, in a general way, the relations involved.


doggerel about a cat

The catnip bird is carefully
Returned to me, who has been so
Careless as to let it fly across the room.

“Is it not good that you have a
Hunting cat, my dear and merely human?”
(he paused to lick his balls)

“Don’t bogart that ‘nip, my friend…
Let it fly again.
But never dare say fetch!”

— Yip

Graphic by Roman.


What have they in common,
Those who are dead and those who live,
But blood and shit and shit and blood?
Whether dead or live or live or dead…
It matters not; we’re leaking bags of it.

— Yip

Begging your pardon. This was inspired by some minor ongoing health problems that could be the subject of some geezer gossip… but I don’t know you well enough. However the circumstance brought to mind Aidan Hartley’s autobiography, The Zanzibar Chest, wherein he writes about his experiences as a war correspondent (a good and vivid read, as you might imagine). Out came this dismal bit of doggerel.

I think I’m in a bad mood.

You’re welcome.

The Shutdown

I’m not sure that this is poetry, but it should be. It may as well be. It is truly amazing:

“Alan Bissett recalls the intense experience of growing up next to one of Europe’s largest petrochemical plants and the harrowing experience of an explosion that temporarily deformed his father.”

Directed, edited & composed by Adam Stafford
Written & performed by Alan Bissett
Filmed, produced & edited by Leo Bruges
Produced & edited by Peter Gerard