Best poem I’ve read in months (initially because of this) is The Love Song of J. Edgar Goldstein:
Let us go then, you and I,
Where my leer is sprawled out upon the thigh
Of the lefty chick that waits upon my table;
Let me binge, in certain half-deserted streets,
With friends with pointed sheetsThrough restless nights in Internet tirades
And sawed-off guys in chicken-hawk brigades:
Guys that swallow all my tedious arguments
Pusillanimous stray vents
That prompt in sane folk moral indigestion …Oh, do not ask my meaning!
Let me get on with my preening.On my blog the women come and bitch
Reading Ivan Denisovitch.
T.S. Eliot was a sucka.
So that’s Jeff “masturbating Vogan” Goldstein then.
Absolutely, McBoing. There needs to be some kind of special Koufax of Distinction for this glorious creation.
I love Prufrock — it moves me almost to tears, believe it or not — and in reading Chris’s parody I was simultaneously exulting in the fabulosity of it and thinking, oh no, I’ll never be able to read Eliot the same way again! But no matter; it’s worth it to have this:
[But in the lamplight, flecked with Cheeto dust!]
Not to mention this:
Shall I kiss my own behind? Do I dare to join the Marines?
I shall wear white-feathered blouses and clean out tiled latrines.
I have heard the chickens crowing, full of beans.
Chris should also get some kind of additional commendation just for the sheer speed of his synapses. It probably took Goldstein two months to come up with his lame Coleridge thing (based on the date of Amanda’s laundry basket post). It looks like it took Chris about an hour to do Prufrock.