Best Backroom Poems
THE JESTER
Jester jingles
with madcap medusa-bells,
dressed in melodic-motley uniform.
A sea of foamy frills
frame the famed renaissance storyteller,
a creature feature
of phantasm for frightened children.
His ghost-white face
with comedic war paint.
Highly educated,
acts the fool,
preaching to the pompadour.
Folly finds the frolicking ear
of the entertained king,
even at the news of sinking ships.
The king’s delighted,
as balls lollygag around his throne room,
and pins dance before his eyes.
Mesmerized, hypnotized,
spirals spry and smiling.
Claps his cacophonous hands.
The puppet court amplifies the sound.
The buffoon’s very wise,
buried behind his makeup.
His strings
control the crown.
Royally screws the court
with tasteless remarks
and they bow over in laughter.
In the backroom formulates his investment plan.
Jester jingles,
of drama and lies,
of liberties and surprise.
8/3/2017
Kai Neumann’s Jester Contest
1st Place
The day is conceived,
tossed bedsheets birth landscapes.
Apelike, a grin gawps.
In the backroom of a slow thought
I dress for breakfast -
recall the tropics,
sticky rice, coconut milk and
one huge river prawn,
all wrapped in a banana leaf.
Slipshod I slip away from that world
adjusting my internal optics.
A blueberry muffin with honey
on a checkered tablecloth,
lashings of watery sunshine.
That was yesterday or last year.
time can be as allusive
as a bottomless eggcup.
This absolute and irrevocable morning,
my gut burns from cheap Canadian whisky.
A mirror implanted into a watching mind
reflects only my belly flop
as I leg crawl into pants.
Less feral creatures than we castaway suburbanites,
gather to forage as the sky climbs
over the hedgerow.
I had a strange dream,
It could have been last night
or a faraway fear
returning from a place no-where near.
Maybe it was only a shadowland
cast upon a cranial wall,
a peeling mural
upon which sermons and bibles
were hung like bats
from dead apple trees.
The kitchen counter
has a note on it:
“Gone to church, there’s
bread in the toaster
we have run out of butter – love you.”
There is an over-ripe banana
by the coffeemaker.
I eat it.
In America there is talk
of changes coming
Revolution is the tune
that we've been humming
We’re all standing on the ledge
they're trying to push us over the edge
To politicians standing below
just waiting for us
It started with whispered words
in backroom places
From the shadows it took to the streets
through nameless faces
At the start the song was soft and low
but then our emotions began to grow
Now we’re shouting the truth
to all who’ll hear us
Our leaders have showed us
that they are useless
They proved long ago how they have
a hatred for us
Discriminate against poor or old
by turning healthcare into gold
Our human rights will all be sold
to line their pockets
In America, we must act while
we still have the right
It’s not too late for us all
to stand up and fight
Join us now and yell their name
they’re the ones who hold the blame
Without change it will be
the ending for us
Don’t let the government take
our freedoms from us
Let us set the world ablaze
with our chorus
Our voices ring out through the night
to show the world what’s wrong or right
Together we can make
a better place for us
You’re reaching up to the stratosphere
But never guessed the regrets
What’s becoming crystal clear
The higher you go, the darker it gets
The pyramid of worldly power
Both before and after the flood
Human cruelty’s crimson tower
Of exploitation’s bodies and blood
A bone-deep chill as dark altitudes enfold
The ruthless dedication to climb at all costs
Are you truly a creature of the cold
Or do you rue what has been lost?
To join our leaders on television
Foul creatures of fangs and claws
Parading their contempt and derision
For decency, morals, and laws
Our country’s transition abrupt
Its “representatives” reprehensible
So clear that power corrupts
Or merely attracts the corruptible
Smug politicians think they’re clever
And they’re right, those foul goats
They use the Sordid Prince as the lever
To shove the mad Queen down our throats
Another line of the epitaph
Of this dead and decaying democracy
The backroom dealers drink and dine
On the spoils of our plutocracy
The dying tower of destruction
Has its hooks in you, best beware
One chance to avoid soul corruption
Let the 2016 election go and say a prayer
7/7/16
© by Author
Contest: Evil is Everywhere
Sponsor: Brian Davey
nineteen-sixty-five
forty second and San Pedro
backroom of the barber shop
racking pool balls for pennies
or whatever them players
saw fit to handout
hustle in some folk’s eyes
scripture in others
Gandhi or Elijah Muhammad
Jesus over Iceberg Slim
a world like a bordello
filled with pimps and Johns
and the only ho' in the room
was me
Need a fender? A replacement hood?
J.D. Body Parts won't do you any good.
See, here you'll find ankles and feet in aisle 3.
Torsos on aisle end-caps, for all to see.
Heads and genitals in the refrigerated section
in the rear. This week we have a special sale
if you need an ear.
Legs in the toy aisle, aisle 6, stacked neatly
next to the Legos and the pick up sticks.
If it's merely a scalp for which you do shop,
you can check out the backroom, where we
there chop. Fingers in the snack aisle, aisle
number five. And they're so fresh, you'd swear
they're still live.
If you need some help to find a part, just ask
the manager, he'll fill your cart.
And you'll find he's quite a charmer.
Our store manager, Jefferey Dahmer!
To run honorably, or not to run honorably--those are my options:
Whether ‘tis wiser in the main to malign
The lives and motives of my foes
Or to defend myself against their charges,
And by defending . . . buoy them? To taint--to smear?
Perhaps. And by these means to goad the field
To err with thoughtless, scurrilous gibes
That mark them petty--a scenario
Most certainly to my gain. To taint--to smear.
To smear, perchance to rouse? O, there’s the risk!
For if I soil their names, what harm may come
Should they then probe my dark impulses
Prompts me to hold. Thus the upshot
Is that defamation circles back.
Why would he brook my lies on fraud and bribes,
That one his bullying ways and past as shameless rake,
This one’s bent for backroom deals, that wife’s excess,
His countenance of graft, this other’s fancy homes
And malnourished dogs near death in household pens,
And not at once retort about my specious provenance,
Which would cut badly? I might slanders sling
And smirch and slime without a conscience tug,
But that the fear of fire coming back,
An incendiary charge from whose blast
No candidate survives, stays my hand
And has me at a loss for what to sow
Than turn to libels that may come back in tens.
Thus caution keeps me playing not to lose;
And thus my sordid plan to lie and bait
Is sidelined now for fear of what I’d reap.
And chicanery of such guile and lure,
A tack denied, puts victory at risk,
And boosts the case for cheating.
Shush now, fool; the cleric starts his homily.
Are You Skew-Whiff?
Are you feeling rather skew-whiff?
Awkwardly placed and standing?
upside-down
back to front
inside out
topsy - turvy
Are your senses damp and unresponsive,
Beckoning confusion and despair?
Does your heart pound even when there’s nothing exciting there?
Forlorn, sorrowful, despondent,
You patronise your grief,
Focus on your problem,
To attain some relief;
You keep flitting to your pleasures,
Lack, for contemplation, a quiet place,
Force your troubles into the backroom,
You’re not to dignify your face.
Tomorrow is for thinking,
Will exist to accommodate,
The glumness and the wretchedness,
That seems to obliqueness and gloom proliferate.
Rhoda Monihan
13th October 2015
For the contest Creative Layouts, sponsor Broken Wings
Elections in Oz
by Robert (Bob) Moore (C) 2016
We’ve got elections coming up, don’t know what to do
Cement Block Bill or Malc the Mouth, neither seems true blue
both parties full of backstabbers, don’t get the man we choose
the backroom boys will do their job, and we’re the ones who lose
First we had our Kevin, then Julia came along
stabbed him and took over, things already going wrong
she complained of sexism, and spent all our dough
then before we knew it, Kevin had another go
Labor promised everything, from Gonsky to N.I.S
paid Gonsky for the first term, no money for the rest
all in forward estimates, from selling all our steel
bottom fell out of the market, those promises were not real
Then Tony Abbott came along,
said that he would right the wrong
which Labor and the Greens had done
but he could not, it was too far gone
He stopped the boats, and the Carbon Tax
but people didn’t want the facts
no money for Gonsky, N.S.I. and other things
but Labor had promised them, and Tony felt the sting
They did not want to listen, and did not want to know
he’d broken promises they said, and so he had to go
Malcom had been waiting, just for this very time
stabbed Tony in the back, and started his own climb
So here we are again, heading for a new election
with no one we can trust, when we make our selection
Bill or Malcom, no good pick, neither has much voice
and polies do not listen, when the people make their choice
We need a PM just for once, who will bring it all together
and a Cabinet to back him, through good, or stormy weather
and after his three years are up, if things have not improved
then let the people vote him out, we’ll have him removed
Dueling Americans
love drawing blood from a distance
Crossing swords with their dogma guns ...
a test of mettle:
Who will bow first
to the pressure building in their lungs
Bipedal zip-lip back-to-back walkers,
bivalve mollusk closed-minded talkers
Fifty paces then turn...
make a quick trigger decision
Taste the iron-cooper burn,
mortician diagnosis: it's a dead mute condition
Mouths kept shut to the mounting evidence,
metal defense always gives the final argument
Bicameral battles in a dark, backroom alley
Congressional blood feud,
never count the bullet-riddled body bag tally
Some wink, nod and non-verbal say
there’s no need to do a single gun violence study
Their lead belly reasoning
is that sidearm pals are a goodfella’s best buddy
In a courtyard bar hall fight,
the fastest finger can make the call dead to rights
Trigger hand-to-trigger hand combat;
getting pistol whipped on Capitol Hill,
give the fact-deficient citizens voter brain concussion
Create a comatose public forum —
put a cap in any crazy talk
of having calm, common sense gun-control discussion
American deer hunters
barrel tell the Bambi does to keep their mouths closed
Silence of the clams
Shut the trap-doors, shutter the transparency window
Money talks ... silence of the clams
No one to legislate protect the little lambs,
what happened to the mighty pen battering rams?
Only pimped-out politician whores
working for Daddy Rich Uncle Sam
Sound byting their tongues from shore-to-shore,
lip-synching parrot style on video cam
Silence of the clams ... money talks,
pearl handles guard the robber barons’ bank vaults
Money talks ... silence of the clams
In a gun-toting realm,
the baddest hip-slingers dragon walk
Breathing fire from the barrel,
yellow-taped pavements outlined in chalk
Dueling Americans
are always bullet quick on the ballot draw,
targeting all real challengers from a rifle scope distance
Gun spray silent, smoking scarlet wisps
of violent intentions fired at any radical vocal resistance
*Image of Tony Dow by News.
AUDIO
VIDEO of 500 Miles by Peter, Paul & Mary
Take Care Wally Cleaver
Wally: Watch the hair!
My faculties are under arrest!
I have been subpoenaed by a Board of Inquiry!
Namely, Mr. & Mrs. Parents of OMgoodness Boy!
Begins the questioning! (blah, blah, blah)
Ward: WHY!
Retorts!
Wally: But dad (blah, blah, blah)
Empathetic.
June: Well, why not?
In-kind.
Wally: Well, mom (blah, blah, blah)
Backroom deliberations begin!
Ward: Ohh! Don't give me that look!
June: But my dear he's just a kid?
Ward: I'll even accept the concept of a Billy the outlaw
as there is some hopeful measure of action,
good or bad, but that's not the conclusion you're
drawing is it, sweetheart?
June: I know I've been turning my back on this, and
once I've turned around, there you are, not a
happy camper, our families, friends, and
neighbors, are all staring back at me, so I've
decided to let you deal with him and I'll stand
by whatever the ruling you decide to enact.
Ward: Well, Mr. OMgoodness, we hereby sentence you
to collect all of your electronic devices and game
cartridges and put them in a large box, then
you're going to clean your room, the garage,
and the yard, then mow the lawn, rake the yard,
then water the plants, after you're done, take a
shower and come down for dinner.
Wally: Wow, that's what an execution feels like.
Ward: No, think of it as a life sentence.
Wally: (sigh!)
June: We love you, honey.
Wally: I know that mom.
Ward: Oh, and by the way, I want to see your computer
keyboard in that box and I'll come around when
you're showering to lock it up in the attic.
(Later that night)
Ward: Good night son.
Wally: Good night dad.
June: Good night honey.
Wally: Good night mom.
(Bedroom doors close, and a computer light comes
on as a young MIT wannabe, clicks on settings and
presses "Online Keyboard")
Whatta day! Brutal, just ... brutal!
It'll be a long night ...
Good night Beav!
2022 July 27
“Dead folks can't hurt you none. It's the ones that are alive,
you have to watch out for.” Grace Metalious, Peyton Place
THE FOURTH FLOOR OF NOWHERE
The back room on the 4th floor of nowhere,
nowhere but our love, hidden from the lips
of those hustlers and backbiting peasants.
Spring to Winter, we’d get our kicks and kips.
We’d stash water bottles, cash and her
stare, where no one would bother to look.
Her blackmail ended our tryst and her life.
We played her game but not by her book.
We knew one day they’d go room to room,
key in hand, a skeleton to find, no remorse.
We’d have goosebumps near each other
but be careful to keep our eyes off course.
Forever is a long time of regret and forget.
A tongue that dared to cross our path, so
unimportant, forgotten, a regrettable life.
A backroom hush but a ghostly shadow.
We don’t dare recollect our lust of youth.
The handholding, the kiss, rose petals in bed.
We are unhappily married to our secrets.
Life in Peyton Place is to keep promises dead.
9/8/2020
Craig Cornish’s The Fourth Floor of Nowhere Poetry Contest
Modern Café
The café near the local petrol station and taken over
By people who had studied food catering when I opened
The theme was artistic copies of famous paintings and
Trained chef who saw themselves as creators of food art
The waiters wore black shirts and ditto trousers and
Where called sommeliers I think.
I ordered grilled mushroom got five on a big plate
Garnished with shredded carrots and a brush stroke of
A sauce rather like an abstract painting but if I want
To see art, at a gallery is better and much cheaper.
What happen to the guy in the backroom reeking of drink?
At least he could cook a hefty meal for a truck driver.
There’s a lot of smoke
blowing out the backdoors
So many kitchens on fire ...
trapped aprons trying to get out
Smoke detectors are broke,
cries for help too long ignored
So many choking on forced desire ...
sexual peccadillos baked into every chore
But nothing is minor anymore
Major societal shift ... rumblings shaking
the good ol’ doughboys to the core
Smoky backroom kitchens on fire ...
those masculine hands feeling on the wrong hose
Executive boardroom kitchens on fire ...
those emperor hands changing into the wrong clothes
There’s a lot of smoke
billowing out the kitchen window
Silent screams for help too long ignored
So many kitchens are on fire ...
burnt reputations in the oven,
with the flames getting higher —
Reaching into the highest power places,
blackening the rich ash-covered faces
Congress basement kitchens on fire ...
those sworn hands
in the wrong bosom apron dropped on the floor
Presidential penthouse kitchens on fire ...
those privileged wet hands
groping lustily for the wrong padded backdoor
The kitchens are on fire,
here in America
What will it take to put the fires out,
to snuff the smoldering hysteria?
Seduced by the $ubtil $ound
Put your elephant ear to the ground,
and listen pachyderm carefully
Do you hear the err stampede sound ...
stimulus assisted thievery deed
There’s been a clandestine meeting
at the Guv’s backroom, ivory Oval table
Secret society plans
got discussed after a pirate greeting:
“Jingle jingo, ho!
Mingle that death germ, yo!
Coughing coffins don’t pass Go!
Collect the money subtilly stole!
The Dons of the gobbling globe
are putting trillion$ into their one-arm bandit $lot
There ain’t no oversight probe
to see who’s double dipping into the taxpayer’s pot
Can you hear that ‘coined phrase’ sound —
Telling hope po’ citizens
richer prosperity will be ‘trick-ling down’
Blind mice hearts are getting seduced
by the cobra charmer’s horn
Boa induced purse needs
are a-putting the squeeze
on that agreed deficit-spending truce
A plundering tone in major D
got seismic depression paltry
of pockets picked empty ~ Quaking thought waves
cratering poverty, fearfully coming virally
Pilfering lobbyist moans
got an executive order of grift execution
to do silent heist carry on
Now, can your tusk ail mind
hear the hog murmuring under the ground?
The day of spoils ill-gotten b’ruptcy abound,
G-mob thieves of every kind
There’s a seductive drone
whistling past the pyramid scheme graveyard
of your no bank account savings a-dying hard —
So a-cyber long dead gone
Don’t dare ear tarry in the impoverished dirt,
which burial groan (from dis mo’ wallet hurt)
$afari pocket poacher$
know where to find those
po’ ivory-rich bones
Can you hear that ‘chiseling chuckle’ sound —
Telling those graveheart citizens
revival e-con-omy lie on pickpocket ground