gershon hepner Poems

I’m living in the psychotropics,
in ambience of Ambien not,
and yet my mind controls the topics
that lovers all consider hot.
...

You’re tender, I’m astringent,
few detours to the sweet.
Our love is not contingent
on synchrony of beat,
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English manners, English speech and English foibles
can’t be exported by a bunch of missionaries;
understatement is not codified in bibles,
and will not give an exhibitioner ease.
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“Mr. Rosenthal, we’re really not
in any courtroom here, ”
to Abe a K.G.B. hotshot
declared. Abe had no fear
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Injustice is the cause of terror,
so liberals would have us believe;
they sadly make a fatal error,
as of their senses they take leave.
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You’d never see Signor Bertone
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Love’s the burning boy, exquisitely was said
once by a lady poet called Elizabeth;
it cannot be extinguished till we’re very dead,
so do not let a bishop diagnose its death.
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Known formally as ahuacates,
the change of name to avocados
made them better for all parties
than potatoes or tomatoes.
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A duster with feathers cannot lay an egg,
but a woman who’s gorgeous but hasn’t much brains
can achieve by exposing a breast or a leg
far more than an ugly one when she complains.
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Dividing, as the Panama Canal
divides the continent into two parts,
what’s evil from what’s basically banal,
implies some monsters are not off those charts
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