What It'd Be Like if Poets Talked Like You/ They're Petmalu

With poems by Lodi Leav, Edgar Allan Petmalu, and the immortal Jorbski Kilmer.

Love is a game

            of tic-tac-toe

            werpa to orbskis


—Lodi Leav




I think I shall never see
A word as lovely as “Lodi.”

“Lodi,” whose hungry mouth is prest
Against that rapsa chicken breast.

“Lodi” who’s with orbskis all day
And lifts their arms up to the sky to say:

“Petmalu!” they shout and swear
Surrounded by lodis over there.

Upon whose mosob lamu has lain
“Enka!” they say, and offer viand and grain.

Poems are made by fools like me.
But only God can make a lodi.



Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and hungry, Over many quaint and curious pages on my Facebook wall— Absently I started Liking, all those posts that they were pushing, As of one gently pushing all those memes upon my wall. “’Tis some acquaintance,” I muttered, “sharing memes on my Facebook wall— Only this, and nothing more.” 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was an overcast October; I was seated in a diner scrolling on posts and pics galore. Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I sought to follow As my posts increase with sorrow—sorrow for the next “Read More”— For the lengthy Facebook essays where I have to tap “Read More”— Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain postings on all that political rambling Depressed me—filled me with a hunger that I never felt before; So that now, to the still grumbling of my gut, I stood there liking “’Tis ‘What’s Your Ulam Pare’” worth the follow, that’s for sure Some page named ‘What’s Your Ulam Pare’ is worth following, for sure;— This is it, and nothing more.”


Presently I warped asunder; to a place warped by my torpor, “Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your approval I seek and implore; But the fact is I was so hungry, and at times I get so angry, And you know this means I’m hangry, I’m left hungering for more, That I scarce was sure I followed”—here the posts began to pour;— Downhill from here, and nothing more.

Deep into that chasm staring, long I sat there, wondering, asking, Doubting, seeing words inverted like how my parents did before; But the noise was gently buzzing, and the buzz turned a-trending And the big word in the cloud were letters of the word “Petmalu” This I whispered, and the phrases started forming words like “Petmalu”— Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into my seat I was slouching, the beads on my forehead forming, Soon again I saw the words inverted, even more ridiculous than before. “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my reporting matrix; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this trending topic explore— Let my mind be still a moment and this trending topic explore;— ’Tis some fluke, and nothing more.

Right then and there I faced the augur, knowing what’s behind that chatter, In there stepped a stately Lodi of the seventies of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But chow mein and fried chicken, images of food strewn upon my wall; Perched on the pics of lamus, pinned on top of my Facebook wall— Perched, and posted, and nothing more. 

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Then this majestic Lodi came beguiling, for some reason I can’t stop laughing, And its words began infecting me like I never felt before, “Though your viand be so tasty, though” I said, “art sure in no hurry, Hip and trendy little Lodi wandering into my Facebook wall— Tell me what in lordly name do these inverted words mean anything at all?” Quoth the Lodi, “Petmalu.”

—Edgar Allan Petmalu 



(... I can’t do this anymore >.


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Marck Ronald Rimorin
Marck Rimorin works in advertising as a strategic planner. He is also a blogger and an occasional writer.
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