Percy Dovetonsils

Percy Dovetonsils Poems

Life, said the old poet
is an insistent knocking
on doors that won't open
into houses

Fruit-flavored lights!
Shivering, quivering, edible sights!
Spooned up suns of chewable mood-
Plasmic, prismic, rhythmic, food.


The professors,
who have taught
in person
their whole lives,

I’ve missed the boat.
And that’s not the
only one.

Every other time
I drowned
I lived
to tell


I feel sorry for myself.
so sorry.
because I have a gift
for self expression

I have a rendezvous with destiny.
She is the goddess who entices me.
I see her beckoning with open arms.
She promises I will not come to harm.

In my cramped world
I only find room
in my sleep.
I’m cornered

I enjoy getting bills.

Lets me know at least

I sit here trying to remember
the dream of America,
the dream of our forefathers,
and all I see is you,

I wondered if I could still love you
if I were blind and
could not see your beauty

'Art needs an operation.'
-Tristan Tzara


This is too much info,
too much sharing,
But I've been so blasted
I haven't jerked off



Words are like

Woke up this morning
I was almost 55.
When Shakespeare was this old he was dead

I returned,
after browsing the Barnes & Noble magazine stand
to buy one more thing
from the same clerk

At Shiloh, The Marne, and Waterloo,
Sribinica, Auschwitz, and Dien Bien Phu,
wherever the slaughtered dead soaked the earth
the marriage between man and forest grew.

Nice thing about the dinos:
their extinction
not my fault.
A meteor did that.

Not that I plan to,
but it’s nice to know
it’s there
if I

When the thieves
on The Red Apple Farm,

Percy Dovetonsils Biography

Percy Dovetonsils is the nom de plume of Doug Lane, who laughed himself nearly to death when he first heard/saw Percy Dovetonsils lisping in his cravate on the old Ernie Kovacs Show. Doug Lane is alive and worrying about his credit card balances in Los Angeles, California. He some day hopes to grow himself a mustache as thin as Percy's.)

The Best Poem Of Percy Dovetonsils

An Insistent Knocking

Life, said the old poet
is an insistent knocking
on doors that won't open
into houses
that won't be there
by the time
they do.

So relax, stop knocking,
sit on the stoop
in front of the house
that won't be there.

Soon enough
the owner,
the houseless owner,
must exit,
looking for a new house,
a new way through,
and you'll find
he doesn't look any better than,
or different from,

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