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amolosh

Updated: Jul 21, 2024

Neopalpa donaldtrumpi



"The agencies of magic are literal-minded.”—Norbert Wiener



The Hitler beetle, Anophthalmus hitleri

Is brown and blind, poor timid thing,

living out its little life in damp Slovenian caves,

where crazed Nazi collectors are collecting it to extinction,

and savants seek to strip it of its name.

Beating its wings, the Mussolini moth, Hypopta mussolinii,

a carpenter miller in the family Cossidae, rose to zoology

and got singed—its honorific smacked too much of evil fame.


What fate awaits, we currently demand,

of hapless Neopalpa donaldtrumpi,

a twirler moth maligned as poorly hung?

Must we now hear its name's new lamentation sung?

Down in the regions where this flutterby abides

it’s said the bards of science have commenced to strum.


Anophthalmus hitleri, the Hitler beetle



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amolosh

Updated: Aug 13, 2024

"They're here, those numbskull wretches who plague us every day in their thousands and their tens of thousands!

"And yet they only want to experience what we’ve got, drawn to it by our own stories. How right Guilhelmus Rogerius was, who, it is said, never missed a good opportunity to shut up!

"What's to be done? All that’s left to our people now is bilking and overcharging these "tourists," who sweep all before them, but can never know the sweetness of life that you and I, cara mia, foolishly took for granted, prima della rivoluzione."—Athaulf, king of the Visigoths, to his princess bride Galla Placidia, ca. 412–13 CE


Raimundo de Madrazo y Garreta, Ataúlfo (1858), Museo del Prado, Madrid


The Visigothic leader Athaulf, or Adolf, who hoped to restore Western civilization, was murdered in Barcelona in 415 CE while taking a dip. Airbnb agents had reportedly been seen in the vicinity. Paulus Orosius, Historiarum adversus paganos libri VII / Seven Books of Histories against the Pagans.


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amolosh

Updated: Jul 18, 2024

Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.—

Alfred Jarry, Ubu Roi (1896)


He grins and shows his wounded ear.

He hears and shows his wounded grin.

No matter what the angels fear

There’s no getting rid of him.

No matter what’s to demons dear,

Transfusion's in the regal line,

Turns tepid ichor into blood.

And in the spring hillbillies bud.


He turning says, Why, come on in,

The gore's just fine! Come in now,

See my dauphin swim!

There's lots of time before the flood

Sets fire—even to the mud.

Confusion all, both bright and dim!



Note: This poem assumed that vice-presidential candidate J. D. ("Butternut")* Vance's claim to be an Appalachian hillbilly in his book Hillbilly Elegy was valid. But evidently that is not the case—see https://www.msnbc.com/opinion/msnbc-opinion/jd-vance-hillbilly-elegy-trump-vp-appalachia-rcna162105.


*A nickname apparently applied to him in his native Ohio.


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