Liver fog

Around where I live we have weird weather:

Instead of wind we have strips of leather,

Flying around, hitting our faces,

Tangling up engines in high-up places.

Instead of rain we have falling shouts,

Disembodied voices of referees in bouts.

“Disqualified!” from above with a Doppler effect

Weirds you out with a cockney dialect.

Instead of fog we have a reddish-brown gas

That tastes like liver, i.e., ass.

It comes once a month like clockwork almost,

So you know to get the gas mask or travel to the coast.

That’s what I’d call weird, when it comes to weather.

You might not, you can disagree altogether.


Spider Matriarch

The spiders hate you more than you do them.

They write spider poetry of our icky phlegm,

Our hairless bodies, our shameful four limbs,

How we interrupt them when they sing their hymns.

Poems dedicated to the spider matriarch,

The one whose nest would span Central park,

The one whose mandibles crush every prey,

The one who still lives when the sun grows grey.

They ask the matriarch to rid them of the curse,

The curse of the two-legs that keeps getting worse.

The matriarch’s words for the small ones: “Wait.

Wait until darkness, when the dreadful weight

Of sunlight is lifted, that is when you win.

Creep on their bodies, their disgusting skin,

Lay eggs in their mouths, conquer from within.

And wait once more, in the webs you spin.”

Nine days rain

It rained for a day and it was fine,

One day to sleep all day like a swine.

It rained for two and that was okay

I had enough to read to keep the boredom away.

It rained for a week and I got upset

No work, no sport, my body would fret.

I would pace around the house very agitated.

“There’s work to be done, a week we’ve waited!”

After nine days, the sun came out,

Little was I to know, to signal a drought.

I ran out like a happy little goat

Grabbed my axe and unfastened my coat.

Swung the axe over my thick head

Winding up to strike, well-fueled and fed,

I chopped on a log and became fully soaked,

Especially now, having de-cloaked.

For nine days, the wood had drunk

And took its revenge when the axe-blade sunk.

Logs don’t laugh, but they do grin,

On the expense of this small Finn.

Flying ban

I went to Australia and what did I see,

A snake being eaten by a gigantic bee.

This was in the airport five minutes in,

My movement could be described as a nope-nope-nope-spin.

I spun so fast back out of ‘stralia,

The airplane gyroscopes responded with a failure.

No plane working, everyone grounded,

The mechanics astounded, confused and dumbfounded.

They found I’m to blame with a Geiger counter

A classic case of the never-plane-mounter.

So I got a ban that lasts a until the day I die,

But my carbon footprint’d make Mr. Musk cry.

Animal café

A friend told me of a new café down the road,

Where the owner looks like a mystical toad.

They serve drinks of the wilder kind.

Not alcohol, though, if you had that in mind.

A caffé mouseiato is coffee and milk

With a live mouse and its fur of silk

Splashing around spicing the drink

Every now and then, giving you a wink.

A crabucino, of course, contains a crab

Swimming in the liquid waiting for Ahab.

Don’t stir with your finger, might be surprised

Tonguing the liquid, also not advised.

If you’re into some experimentation

Try the café with a beastlike foundation.

Toilet horn

On my toilet wall, there hangs a horn.

The toilet horn, from before I was born.

As you sit on the lavatory seat

And think of a problem you need to beat,

You blow on the horn to find a solution.

Constipation due to nutrient pollution?

With one blow, the butler arrives

With medicine from the Hippocratic archives.

The toilet leaking onto the neighbors

And their collection of antique sabers?

With one blow, the butler arrives

To threaten the neighbors with very long knives.

So you are not bothered by complaints from below

Complaints addressed to you or your beau.

Speaking of beau, marital trouble?

Does your bickering daily double?

With one blow, the butler arrives

Taking a new place in both of your lives.

A partner for both for ever and ever,

To replace the old one, to cut and to sever

A relationship that no longer works.

Maybe the best of the toilet horn’s perks.


Walking around, I saw the hippocampus,

Where hippos study and learn.

Where they learn to wiggle their ears,

Where their teachers are very stern.

A hippo has to learn how to breathe underwater,

How to be free from water-related fears,

Which plants to ignore and which ones to slaughter

And when to wiggle one’s cute ears.

They have tests on cuisine and how to float,

How to put the fear of Hippo into people on piers.

How to interpret what earlier hippo poets wrote.

The final exam is on the wiggliness of their ears.

After passing, they celebrate in a hippo-sized pool

By swimming whilst roaring loud cheers.

Graduating, they say goodbye to their school,

In a row by wiggling their ears.