After champagne, a fizzy feeling comes

After champagne, a fizzy feeling comes—
A closed Door opens, the mind succumbs
to Joy. Its sober Angel banished for the night—
High spirits burst forth in blazing light.

The Heart, released from care, takes flight—
in Volatility.
No Dirge, no Woe can bring it down.
No purpose, plan,
or dull Responsibility.

This is the Hour of Exhilaration—
Cherished Abandon, if regretted later.
For now, Time is suspended, so—
First—Chill—then Pop—then the letting go—

by Antonia Clark

Read more Parody


Antonia Clark, a medical writer and editor, has also taught creative writing and manages an online poetry workshop. Her full-length poetry collection, Chameleon Moon (2014) will be reissued in 2019 by Bellevue Books. Toni lives in Vermont, loves wine, travel, and French café music. Contact antoniaclarkpoetry@gmail.com or visit antoniaclark.com.


To a Corporation Dying Young
with a nod to A. E. Housman

The time your IPO sold well
We cheered you at the closing bell.
Traders on the floor cried "buy"
And sent you to a record high.

Today, a Judge impounds your stock
And puts your assets on the block,
As from your officers you slip
Received into receivership.

Smart play, admitting to defeat,
Now that your specs are obsolete.
For early though a tech may please
It withers briefer than CDs.

Lawsuits bankruptcy will close
Cannot offend the public nose,
And creditors cannot assail
Those behind the corporate veil.

Now you will not join the dreck
Of those delisted from NASDAQ,
Another former brand of fame
And the value died before the name.

So get, before the news is out,
Another app that you can tout,
And make new promises to us:
Puffery in your prospectus.

And round you just as before
Will flock the suckers who want more,
Gentle sheep begging to be shorn
As trusting as the newly born.

by Chris Bullard

Read more Parody


Chris Bullard lives in Philadelphia, PA. He received his B.A. in English from the University of Pennsylvania and his MFA from Wilkes University. Finishing Line Press published his poetry chapbook, Leviathan, in 2016. Kattywompus Press published High Pulp, a collection of his flash fiction, in 2017. His work has appeared in publications such as 32 Poems, Green Mountains Review, Rattle, Pleiades, River Styx, and Nimrod.


Dover Peach
with a thumb to the nose toward Matthew Arnold and Anthony Hecht

They never told you my name
when they invaded the anthologies.

Doing me such favors, those two:
a weekend trip to the coast,
a bottle of the wrong perfume.
A girl does her best,
but to go down in history invisibly,
without even a name, is too much.

There was never a question
of a fruitful relationship—
and all that complaining

about the world in general
and a few things in particular
war and suffering and all that
as though Matthew thought of them first.

Tony was no better, expecting me
to drop everything and start cooking
when he showed up like a dog on the doorstep
needing my life to juice his own ambition.

The nerve to claim my reality
without asking. You'll be glad to know
I've given up poets to buy
my own ticket, dance my dance,
walk past their erection, a fence

they built themselves. I wrote on it:
For a good time call Matt or Tony

by Sandra Soli

Read more Parody


Sandra Soli, writer/editor in Edmond, Oklahoma, enjoys wordplay and terrible puns. Her poems, articles, and short fiction have appeared widely in journals, humanities magazines, and anthologies that benefit the homeless. Author of two award-winning poetry chapbooks and teaching artist, Sandy survived childhood in a war zone and is completing a poetry collection based on that experience.


Comprehension Beyond Advanced Placement

To go, or not to go—that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The International Baccalaureate
Or to walk away damaged and even insane
And by opposing just live. IAs, EE—
No more—and by IAs to say we need
The struggle, and the thousand criteria
That students must make. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be damned. IAs, EE—
EE—perchance to learn: ay, there's the rub,
For in that laissez faire what stress may come
When we have researched these four thousand words,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of the IB
For who would bear the whips and scorns of it,
Th' knowledge and care, the risks taken plus
The communication, the reflection,
The principles and thinking, inquiry
That open-minded balance might foster,
When they themselves might their loss of life make
With a heavy workload? That’d burdens bear,
To sweat and cry through these weary years,
But that the dread of something afterwards,
The life beyond the IB, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus IB does make fools of students,
And thus the native hue of intelligence
Is paled o'er with the darkness of despair,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this thought their sanity turn awry
And lose the name of smart.—Oh my lord,
The University!—Beautiful, accept me
And make my suff'ring worth it.

*IB = International Baccalaureate
*IA - Internal Assessment
*EE - Extended Essay

by Tylyn K. Johnson

Read more Parody


Tylyn K. Johnson is a socially-conscious writer from Indianapolis, IN. A Dean's Scholar and social work major at UIndy, he's published stories with Severance Publications and the Preservation Foundation. His nonfiction appears in Rigorous Magazine, Indiana Voice Journal, and other publications. Find @TyKyWrites on Twitter, Instagram, and Medium.


Stopping by the Canal on a Hot Afternoon

Whose house is that I do not know.
I pass it when I'm cycling, though;
They will not see me stopping here.
I'll take a piss then on I go.

My little bike must think it queer
To stop without a toilet near
Between my home and sandy beach
The hottest day so far this year.

If my bike could ring its bell
It might do so to raise some hell,
Cause me to dribble on my jeans
Right here in this idyllic dell.

The bushes are lovely and water's flowing
But with people coming I must get going.
They see my bike; their pace is slowing
They'd see my tracks if it were snowing.

by Allan Lake

Read more Parody


Originally from Saskatchewan, Allan Lake has lived in Vancouver, Cape Breton Island, Ibiza/Spain, Tasmania, and now calls Melbourne home (with regular retreats to Sicily). He has published two collections: Tasmanian Tiger Breaks Silence (1988) and Sand in the Sole (2014). Lake won Elwood(Aus) Poetry Prize 2016, Lost Tower Publications(UK) Poetry Comp 2017, and Melbourne Spoken Word Poetry Festival Competition 2018. He fears shopping malls and freeways.