On the Flying Sausage Poetry Competition – HumorOutcasts.com


When a staff arrived at his psychiatric clinic to document Ezra Pound studying his poems, they introduced him a present–an Italian salami sausage–which he threw at them.

The Wall Side road Magazine, obituary of Marianne Roney

Pound: “I HATE salami.”


As Mr. and Mrs. Wallace Stevens got here into my analyzing room, it used to be transparent that he used to be there below duress.  I took his important indicators–hypertension, obese, abnormal meters–then sat down at my table and became on my perfect bedside method, although none folks had been in mattress.

“Neatly, you’re so much like many different older male sufferers,” I mentioned, scanning his chart.  “You may just are living a very long time . . . for those who get started taking good care of your self.”

“That’s why we’re right here,” mentioned his spouse, Elsie Rachel Stevens.  She became her head with the plain aim of exhibiting her profile.  She did certainly seem to have been the type for the head of Liberty at the Mercury dime.  She had a vintage good looks; I may have put her in my pocket and spent her in a while a field of sweet–say Black Crows or Dots.

Mrs. Wallace Stevens, Mercury dime: by no means observed in the similar room in combination.


“Why precisely?” I requested.

“He’s placing on weight and I’m afraid he’s going to have a center assault.”

Stevens would die prior to the improvement of ldl cholesterol assessments, so I needed to continue with out assistance from era.

“What do you love to devour?” I requested.

“Not anything however ice cream,” his spouse mentioned.

Stevens:  “Mint chocolate chip–yum!”


“Ice cream, you scream, all of us scream for ice cream,” Stevens mentioned.  He concept he used to be humorous, however that’s the type of funny story just a pupil in a low-residency M.F.A. program would snort at.

“Is that true?” I requested him, however prior to he may just resolution his spouse interrupted: “He thinks he’s the Emperor of Ice Cream.”

I knew that surprise remedy–a nutritious diet of greens, culmination and nuts proper off the bat–wouldn’t attraction to him.  You’ll’t make other people cross “chilly turkey” once they’ve been abusing their our bodies for years, you’ve were given to get them regularly acclimated to a brand new routine–or give them a sizzling turkey sandwich.

I reached in my table drawer and rummaged round some of the medication samples, tongue depressors and different junk I stored there and–after a couple of moments of digging–discovered what I used to be on the lookout for.

“Why don’t you take a look at such a?” I requested him pleasantly.

“What’s it?”

“A Slender Jim cylindrical meat stick,” I mentioned.  “It’s the daring and highly spiced snack constructed from red meat, robotically separated hen, lactic acid starter tradition and different scrumptious, nutritious elements.”


As Thomas struggled together with his deliberate masterwork, there used to be little assist or convenience I–Vivienne Haigh-Picket Eliot–may just give him, except for the ache and agony of our marriage–at all times an excellent supply of inspiration!  I had advised a identify for it–“He do the Police in Other Voices” from Dickens’ Our Mutual Good friend–however he had rejected it.  “I need one thing . . . je ne sais quoi,” he mentioned, his voice trailing off.  “The Rubbish Land–The Compost Heap–The Ash Bin.”

T.S. Eliot and primary spouse Vivienne compete in sport of “Who’s Extra Depressing?”


I’d withdraw and glance upon him with heartfelt unhappiness.  He had at all times executed so neatly prior to, borrowing strains and pictures and subject matters and characters and punctuation marks from different poets: Shakespeare, the Bible, Chaucer, Aldous Huxley, Yogi Berra.  Why isn’t there, I assumed to myself, a financial institution like the only the place he works, the place blocked poets may just cross and withdraw a metaphor, a rhyme scheme–no matter they wanted once they had been at a useless finish.  Then I remembered the outdated pronouncing: Banks most effective lend cash to those that don’t want it.  That’s how it will most probably finally end up, Robert Provider and Edna St. Vincent Millay strolling in with empty wallet and strolling out with a pockets stuffed with similes.

Although he had rejected my recommendation prior to now, I determined to make one ultimate surreptitious take a look at.  “Will you be down for dinner, expensive?” I requested–I am a bit of of a poet myself, I assumed with self-congratulation.

“What are we having?”

I flashed a teeny little smile at him and sang, “Oh, I’d are living to be an Oscar Mayer Weiner . . . that’s what I’d actually love to be-ee-ee.”


We had been sitting round on the Town Lighting fixtures Pizza Parlor, looking to glance alienated and succeeding as a result of our order hadn’t arrived but.  Humorous how that works: You set a host of people that’d reasonably be artists than paintings in a pizza joint, and for some reason why carrier suffers in silence.

Corso attempted to cadge a loose fill up from the Pepsi gadget, however the proprietor noticed him and mentioned “Ix-nay at the epsi-Pay.”  The fellow used to be a grasp of pig Latin, you needed to be fluent in different languages to stay alongside of the clientele.

“I want any individual concept my paintings used to be obscene, like Ginsburg’s,” probably the most literary tyros mentioned.  Allen had hit the jackpot when the law enforcement officials went after “Howl and Different Poems” and gave us Beat Poets the most efficient loose exposure cash may just purchase, however that kind of luck de scandal used to be short-lived.  The primary man previous the submit is perpetually enshrined in infamy, whilst his successors are written off as unworthy imitators.

Our stomachs had been growling loud sufficient to go into a poetry slam when in spite of everything our pizza emerged from the oven below the “peel,” the outsized spatula that carried our hopes and desires onto a serving tray after which to our desk.

“Right here you might be,” the waiter mentioned, “one huge pepperoni pizza.”

“Thanks!” we cried in unison and started to clutch for slices.

“Grasp on,” the waiter mentioned.  “Who’s paying for this?”

We checked out each and every different with uncharacteristic guilt–everybody assumed any person else would pay.  Allen Ginsberg gave his function shrug as though the query had been a zen koan.

“K–so none of you deadbeats has any cash, huh?”

Silence throughout, accompanied via winces of embarrassment.

“I’ll let you know what,” the waiter mentioned.  “I’ll assist you to have it if anyone can resolution my riddle.”

We checked out each and every different with elation–this will have to be an afternoon on the seashore, a work of cake, like taking sweet from a child.  Allen had advised us we had been the most efficient minds of our era–shall we nearly style the cheese and pepperoni!

“You’re on!” I mentioned.

“What’s the adaptation between a big pepperoni pizza and an English level?”

Sadly, the most efficient minds seated across the desk got here up clean.

“Any person?  Any one?” the waiter mentioned.  Eventually we gave up, for my part and jointly.

“We don’t know,” I mentioned.

“The adaptation between a big pepperoni pizza and an English level,” the waiter mentioned as he carried the tray again to the kitchen, “is that the pizza can feed a circle of relatives of 4.”



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