Les Fauves

image borrowed from bing

Les Fauves

“Poetry is man’s rebellion against

being what he is.”--James Branch Cabell

Prelude

Poetry is chameleon.

It can survive even the most

absurd of parameters by

blossoming in concrete,

or being written without the letter “E”,

soaring in a vacuum, being thrust

from inner to outer space, blasting

free, racing unharnessed, mixing meter,

metaphor, moments, & machinations,

only stopping as stanzas

to gasp for more breath.

Fauvist

the amazon-green blades of grass

nearly concealed the treasure

of those aero petals, the amaranth hearts,

the lurid amethyst stamen with their fetching

fuchsia spots and bright apricot stems,

sporting stripes of arylide alternating with ash,

as squads of insects paraded over them waving

their Bangladesh-green & barn-red banners.

Oulipo

the

king

draws

cement

shapely

Catholic

backsides.

Flarf

The Jersey Jambon could not get his metamorsel

to unsnap, so he had to use his flangial 

shoe-spoon as a limp lever, pressing hard

until it twanged & thwacked his pelvic forethumb

ten times ten, finally forcing him to unbuckle

the headband off his left ankle, and tie it

to his third tongue. 

Fluxus

Finally is stood finished, sparkling

with fresh red paint in the middle

of his father’s garage, with its

air mattress wings, using coat-hanger

struts to hold them up, attached

with red & green duct tape to its

soap box derby fuselage, 

TITAN ONE proudly stenciled

on both sides of its plywood pallet tail,

its propeller made from yellow spliced

canoe oars, handleless frying pans

mounted between broomsticks

for front wheels, skateboards for

rear wheels, a blue plastic beach chair

in the cockpit, red scarves for seat belts,

three golf clubs for stick controls,

with hand-painted instruments on

a styrofoam dashboard, and a Saran-

Wrap windshield stretched over rulers.

He & his pals pushed the plane

outside for its test flight. The sky

was electric blue & the white cliffs

awaited, but oddly, nobody

wanted to play pilot. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

Would you like the author to read this Pastiche poem to you?