Here is Arty Veronica
Here is arty Veronica
With her colicky rag of hair.
Electric guitar, harmonica
Are harbingers of despair.
The monkeypriest and the poopycup
Were stupid with admiration.
They stood too close and got fucked up
By the rep from Aryan Nation.
Monkey see, monkey write.
Colin Clout’s come home again.
But blood is not ink despite
Your feeding it through a pen.
Daughter, where is your dog collar?
Where are your whips and plugs?
I don’t know why I bother
Policing these little thugs.
The little door in my chest
Is opening and out comes a ladder.
And the monkeypriest and the poopycup
Are oozing out like batter.
I’m just mad about Saffron.
Saffron’s mad about me.
Pseudoepinephrine in
A tiny white cotton T.
Listen as Teacher scolds me.
You’d think I hadn’t a prayer.
But after school she told me
To come but I was already there.
Oh, bell without a clapper!
Oh, new sud in the rinse!
You can’t expect these rappers
To come to their own defense.
Oh, Alpha Zulu Foxtrot!
And, thanks to the god of wealth,
I’m sick of all these doctors.
Physician, fuck thyself.
In the depths of the walk-in closet,
Women are young men too.
With the help of a safety deposit
We can all hopple on through.
I caught Veronica sexting.
She’s carrying on like a stallion.
I trust the story is extant
And written in choice Italian.
Praise! It don’t come cheap.
You’re apt to lose your Zen.
But all the literati keep
Eleemosynary friends.
If you haven’t seen the photo,
Better give Baby his bottle.
She is a shocking babe. Hakuna
Matata, Nezhukumatathil.
Poet, supplant the porn!
Conjure the gorgeous ass.
Till teenage boys all scorn
These corny photographs.
Father, accuse not your son!
The son who loves you so.
The poopycups will come.
They have nowhere else to go.
The monkeypriests are approaching.
They bring their terrible sword.
You cannot resist the power of
The poopycups of the Lord.
And Veronica isn’t human.
Whom she does not love she hates. I eat
The cunt of a brutal woman
And I don’t care how long it takes.
I don’t care how long it takes!
Let it go on till Hanukkah!
This is the United States.
And this is arty Veronica.
| Anthony Madrid |
|
levelheaded: Here is Arty Veronica
“Here is Arty Veronica” begins innocently enough. The adjective “colicky” is a refreshing modifier for her “rag of hair.” The next sentence, though seemingly unrelated, makes some sense—musical instruments can manifest heartache.
Stanza two: enter “The monkeypriest and the poopycup.” As early as this fifth line, we can be certain that Anthony Madrid’s poem doesn’t warrant, doesn’t want the kind of close read we might typically give a poem. That is not to say that it shouldn’t be read closely; rather, it should be read differently.
Madrid’s poem prefers silly to serious, nonsense to sense. But, while the author might like it to seem as if he has employed the “Monkey see, monkey write” method of composition, the poem’s insistent rhythm and clever rhymes cue us in to the fact that Madrid takes his job somewhat seriously. Somewhat. He can’t stay serious for long. An allusion to Spenser is quickly supplanted by a missing “dog collar,” “whips and plugs.”
Similarly, when we read, “The little door in my chest / Is opening and out comes a ladder[,]” we expect this tender moment to be followed up by bathos. Instead, we get “the monkeypriest and the poopycup / Are oozing out like batter.” This strategy speaks to the poem’s core philosophy. Later in the poem, the speaker doesn’t say, “You cannot resist the power of / The Lord.” He says, “You cannot resist the power of the poopycups of the Lord.” No God except a God who would defecate into a party cup and hide it.
Even with this bleak suggestion, “Here is Arty Veronica” is a celebratory poem. It wants to be enjoyed. It reminds us that poems are, like the United States of America, a place where we can say whatever the heck we feel.
– The Editors
