Writing poems is a lot easier than writing novels. Nobody reads poems. There's probably a moral in that fact somewhere.
I give my books away for free. I built the site myself because I wanted to and it was fun - or at least more fun at that time than adding words to my latest work-in-progress. Enjoy!
>Nobody reads poems
Yeah, I don't read poems.
The series are called: Lit Art, inspired by Pop Art, but applied to prose.
Something like Dr. Seuss × Andy Warhol is what I’ve been aiming for, where the writing has meter, and the subject is a blend of satire, commercialism & pop culture.
Here’s a story from the first volume. This one was inspired by a Beatles song from Abbey Road
1. New Year’s Eve
Mean Mister Mustard sat on the dock, ate chips & cod, then had had enough —
“Foo-bar!”
Vehement, Mustard threw his fried fish to the sea.
“Go back where you came from!”
Typical Monday for Mustard, but b/w sitting in the English Rain
& being fed-up w/ pub grub, this was the last straw.
“I’m leaving!”
So it goes, just under a half-dozen decades in the kingdom was all it took Mustard to decide even:
The Best Fish & Chips in London-Town!
couldn’t keep him.
“I’ve just had it up to here w/ England all her rain & rubbish!”
So announcing, Mustard SPAT like PATOOEY! then chucked a fistful of fries to the sea.
Wrung up in a frenzy of his own rueing was Mustard, when Sister Pammy stepped in.
“Mustard ..” said she, “Cheer up, y’ruddy badger!”
She bummed him a bump w her phanny, then said:
“It’s New Year’s Eve.”
But Mustard remained sat slumped.
“It’s no use,” he said, feeling hapless, helpless, & everything b/w, “’Fraid I’ve just lost me taste for the sea.”
While bemoaning the state of things, Pammy, beside him, pat him on the head like she did sometimes.
“There, there ..” said she, “Think all you’ve yet to live for ..”
But to Mustard, this thought was ludicrous, completely.
“To live for?” he baffled, “Like what?! Beef Wellington?” he asked, “Mash’n Bangs? Meat Pies, eh? Fooey!”
Mustard knew his predicament, precisely.
“There ain’t a dish more delish than a Newspaper Wrap of Brit Fish & Chips, & not a thing a chap can do about that.”
Having sighed so exasperated a cry of defeat, Mustard looked to the salt-water body.
“Think it’s time I make like V.,” said he, “Fill me pockets full of stones, walk the plank, sink me-self to bottom.”
Getting to his feet, Mustard stepped to the end of the dock.
At the edge, he stared out for the horizon, searching for something to hold on to, nonetheless, realizing:
“There’s nothing here for me now . . .”
But Pam, so caring & knowing a thing or two about coaxing, hinted:
“Mustard,” she intoned, “What about Pizza?” Quite wryly, Mustard’s face contorted.
“Pizza?!” he cried, bewildered. “What tripe is this?”
Hearing such, he really thought that Pammy had lost it.
“The Bloody Brits don’t make pizza!”
He banged the dock w/ both fists, livid that Pam wouldn’t just cut to it, & then she did —
“But in America ..” she said, “In New York, New York ..”
& something about those words had Mustard listening a bit more closely, than before.
“They say a slice of NYC Pie is: Out Of This World ..” said she. “& we could go if you wish ..”
Well Mustard, being Mustard, was fantasizing, already. “Out of this world ..” he repeated, “For pizza ..”
Like that, Sister Pammy’d filled his mind with hopes & dreams of limitless fancy.
“Y’mean it, Sis?” he asked, “We can go there, you & me?”
“Eventually,” said Pammy.
But Mustard was never one for arranging things hypothetically.
“I’ll be hangry b’fore eventually.” he growled, “And no time like the present, especially w/ my appetite ripe for Second-Lunch.”
Turning from the dock’s end, he marched for land, on the way, hooking elbows with Pammy.
“Come along to the airport, & book a flight for the afternoon. Get me to there by evening.
You can meet me someday in the New Year.”
& Pammy, with her Saving Account stashings, & wish-granting habituality, went ahead, booked a One-Way for Mustard within the Hour
//new trip