Three ironic poems by Elena Malec: “The Tempest” in Death Valley; On The Road and “The Tempest” in Death Valley. Enjoy them, Yareah Magazine readers!
“The Tempest” in Death Valley
With downsizing opera houses,
and philharmonics on strike everyday
let me just say:
I wish to see a dramatic play
Shakespeare, Beckett, O’ Neill,
(I simply dislike vaudeville),
but put it this way:
who would die to drive to L.A. ?
After it rained cats and dogs all night
some folks got a scratch or a bite
(as the Citizens Band informed),
don’t tell me,
my spirit has been chloroformed,
but I shall survive that;
I must learn from the kangaroo rat:
when this place on earth stoops so low,
that its staple is now the talk show,
I can take it as a homeopathic gain
for treating my abrasive migraine.
On the Road
The death of a salesman
is a godless ritual:
every evening in a cheap hotel room,
he drops himself on a standard bed,
drops his briefcase
on the carpeted floor,
then, with a jerk,
inevitably, he drops his braincase
breaking the sound barrier,
when the contents drop in pieces
like shattered glass panes.
For now he is free.
It only takes a quick click,
And he is back a salesman
In his sleep and dream and every single
(goddammit, that remote control!)
16c. Dutch school
Everyman, still interested
in the fundamentals of money making?
You’ve got it: a video of the latest bestseller
on finance. We guarantee success. We’ve been
selling expertise for almost four hundred years.
You will live in myth and passions the joyous
orgiastic visions of Hieronymus Bosch in The Garden
Now, close up your mouth and give me five;
just picture this: YOU – a tryptic –
Wingding Oneiric Whopper. WOW.