Welcome to the 2021 International Metamorphosism Limerick Contest

Thank you for visiting the 2021 metamorphosism.com International St. Valentine’s Day Limerick Contest. Entries are now closed! I am leaving comments open for a while for congratulations and well-wishes to the contestants.

Not for the first time, the winner this year is dark-horse entrant Perry Iles. Congratulations, Perry!
It was a close decision, this year, between Perry Iles and runner-up KayO. I wanted to give it to KayO because she not only squeezed a sea shanty into limerick form, she also did it to Mary Oliver, which I had assumed to be impossible. HOWEVER, Perry’s entries are simply overwhelming once again this year, and the prize is sourdough starter, and Perry lives closer, so there’s a chance it might still be alive when he gets it. I did you a favor, KayO! (Perry, if you don’t want the prize let me know…)
Thanks to everyone who entered, and everyone who visited.
See you next year!

Welcome to the 2021 metamorphosism.com International St. Valentine’s Day Limerick Contest.
Remember when we used to look forward to 2021? And now it already feels strangely like 2016-2020 in a trenchcoat?
Anyway:
As every year, please leave your entries in the comments to this post.
Enter as often as you like.
You may notice that I have no image for the contest this time up there at the top. That is because I am in home office and unable to make one on my little laptop, also I am baking and knitting all the time. If anyone else wants to make one, hey knock yourself out.
This year’s themes:
(Also check further down the rules for newer and/or more specific prompts/themes)
Sex
Love
Stupid uprisings
Obscure ceremonies
Virology and epidemiology
Cute animals
,
plus bonus themes to be added as the contest progresses
All participants are required to consult the combined FAQ/rules below BECAUSE THEY CHANGE WHILE THE CONTEST IS GOING ON.
Like every year.

FAQ/Rules

  • Does it have to be a limerick? YES. This is strictly enforced, and non-limericks will not be accepted. Google correct limerick form if you are not sure.
  • How do I enter? POST YOUR ENTRY OR ENTRIES in the comments to this post. Click on comment, or whatever is down there, and add a new comment.
  • When is the deadline? THE DEADLINE is 14 February 2021
  • Do you mean 12 midnight on the night of the 13th or midnight on the night of the 14th? And which time zone shall have seisin of jurisdiction? We have had considerably confusion in the past! NINE AM (CENTRAL EUROPEAN TIME) 14 February 2021.
  • Is there a prize? Maybe. I don’t know yet.
  • Is there a limit to how often I can enter? NO. Enter as often as you like. The more often you enter, the better your chances.
  • HOWEVER ONLY ORIGINAL ENTRIES ARE ACCEPTED. PLAGIARISM RESULTS IN DISQUALIFICATION. No exceptions.
  • Can entries be bawdy? YES, absolutely. These are limericks, they can be bawdy, gross, you name it. It’s not required, but it is in the nature of the genre. ALSO: this is for St. Valentine’s Day so points awarded for love/romance/sex-related poetry. However, entries offensive to the contest operator will be deleted at his discretion, for offenses including but not limited to racism, and misogyny, and politics to which I object.
  • Complaints and other negative trolling will be deleted. There is no avenue of appeal. Decisions of the judges are final. Be nice, and have fun, and don’t take this too seriously.
  • Is there anything else I can do to be deleted? Yes. Besides complaints, anything else that is not a limerick will also be deleted, especially anything remotely similar to trolling, nastiness or disagreeing with me. That will get you deleted, and whatever else our technicians here can think up. This is meant to be a fun and light-hearted.

Let’s see, what else? Oh yes.

  • Bonus points are awarded for any of the following (No limit to how many themes you may include, the more the better):
  • Feel free to write me and suggest some!
    Limericks that are sea shanties (with or without the word “wellerman”).
    Conversion of Mary Oliver poems into limerick form.
    More will be added as the month progresses

    (More themes to come, watch this space.)

By entering you grant metamorphosism.com permission to publish your entry electronically on metamorphosism.com, in social media (including but not limited to twitter.com, facebook.com and anything else) as well as in book form, although the latter is REALLY unlikely, and has never happened yet, without compensation (this is a non-profit venture, and any possible, although unlikely, book would be, you know, for charity most likely). I have never published them anywhere but here, but who knows?
AS ALWAYS, RULES ARE SUBJECT TO CONSTANT CHANGE DURING THE CONTEST, SO CHECK BACK OFTEN.

It’s not an obsession, it’s a leitmotif

Dark bar
Man (walks in, squints, looks around, sits on a stool next to a shaggy dog, sighs): This free?
Dog (sets glass on bar, slowly looks over shoulder at man): You just sat on a stool.
Man (jumps to feet): Jesus! What?
Dog: Hurhurhur. (sips drink)
Man (sighs again, sits back down): Don’t, dude. It’s been a rough time, stool-wise.
Dog: Burst pipe?
Man (nods, signals to bartender “I’ll have what he’s having and bring another one for him, too”): That was just the start of the iceberg.
(Drinks arrive, dog nods, raises glass to man)
Man: I was sick all week. 38 degrees C, terrible stomach cramps. Felt like appendicitis, but right, if I know what appendicitis feels like, it can’t be appendicitis again, right. So, I’m not sure. Ate something bad, or a stomach bug, dunno. Maybe diverticulitis. Luckily I already have an initial appointment with my colonoscopy doctor, because my urologist recommended I see her after I told him the water in the toilet bowl was very often bright red, if you know what I mean.
Dog (shrugs): Huh.
Man: So, I asked my urologist, probably hemmorhoids right and he said, maybe, or it could be malignant too, maybe go have them take a look under the hood.
Man: So I called and made an appointment. Then, like, next day I notice the water in the toilet bowl is purple now.
Dog: Purple.
Man: Only then did I notice that my wife had hung a purple toilet bowl freshener thing from the rim.
Dog: Hur hur.
Man: So I asked her, honey, were you using a red one last time and she said yeah.
Dog (smirks, sips drink): Red toilet bowl fresheners are sponsored by the colonoscopy industry, I betcha.
Man: Never got around to canceling. But after my thing this week now I’m glad I didn’t.
Dog: Cheers.
Man: Cheers.

The Incredible Two-Headed Man

Exterior: Modest house. Camera zooms through wall into the
Interior: Combination living room/scientist’s lair. A two-headed man is seated on the sofa. Across the room, a door opens onto a kitchen, where something bubbles. Theremin music emits from an open laptop.

Right Head: I have an idea for a toilet story.
Left Head (glances up sharply from a psychology book): No.
Right Head: A funny toilet story.
Left Head: There are no funny toilet stories.
Right Head (chuckles): This one is.
Left Head: No.
Right Head: The punch line is…
Left Head: I don’t wanna hear it. Nobody does.
Right Head: Colonoscopy…
Left Head: I’m serious. How does your mind work?
Right Head: Colored toilet bowl freshener balls…
Left Head (Holding hands over ears) Lalalalala.
Right Head: What is your problem?
Left Head: You mean your problem. Toilet stories are never funny. They are cringy at best, and usually merely gross. No one is funny on the toilet. Not the Marx Brothers, not Mr. Bean, not Monty Python. And what do you think people visualize when you tell one? We are 61 years old. No one wants to imagine us on a toilet.
Right Head: Hm. Good point.
Left Head: And plus, your last blog post involved a burst sewer pipe.
Right Head: Hm.
(Silence. Left Head reopens book.)
Right Head: I’m still going in for the colonoscopy tho.
Left Head (Sighs. Recloses book, gazes up at ceiling)

A brief Christmas play

(Lights come up)

(Living room, a woman is decorating a Christmas tree, radio plays Christmas songs. Cat sleeps on sofa)

Man (seated at table, repairing ornament): Fuck, I glued the bird to my finger.

(Fade to black)

(The End)

A question of perspective.

Mopping raw sewage in his cellar, the wolf regretted ever leaving the forest.
From where had it come? Had the sewer line leading out of the house clogged, causing in-house sewage to somehow overflow into the furnace room, or had some external problem caused outside sewage to flow back into the house and overflow?
And why did it have to happen on a Saturday night, maximizing the time he would have to wait before a plumber could come?
He imagined scenes from plague horror movies where a janitor mops contaminated water and you see a single drop, in slow motion, splash up and get him in the lip, or the eyeball, and then in even more extreme closeup, how the bacteria, or viruses, enter his bloodstream, etc.
Everything is a question of perspective, he told himself.
Accepting his fate to the extent that he mopped up everything and resolved, once it had dried, to mop the room again with some sort of harsh disinfecting liquid, the wolf nevertheless washed his paws for a long time, then clipped his claws and washed his paws again. And then again.
Good thing about a pandemic, thought the wolf, is at least you have lots of disinfectant on hand.
Then he poured a glass of whiskey, closed his eyes, and thought of tundra, and forests, and prairie.

Gobble

As I mentioned already on Facebook, we cancelled Thanksgiving due to the pandemic and will instead eat club sandwiches via skype with the children on Saturday. The turkey we had ordered from the organic farmer down the road got a last minute reprieve and, cynical and disillusioned after having said goodbye to life, is presently hitchhiking somewhere with a beach to smoke French cigarettes and write existentialist poetry. Don’t worry, we ordered another one for Christmas, assuming the lockdown is over by then, and in preparation will all self-quarantine 10 days before getting together bc you can’t be too careful.

Anyway the turkey mailed me his first poem this morning, excerpt attached below.

GOBBLE
I

I saw the best fowl of my generation destroyed by farmers, gorged hysterical cackle,
dragging themselves through the angry yard at dawn looking for a trough of corn
angelfeathered hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and gobbling sat up clucking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water barns floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven on order before the holidays and saw the poultry angels staggering on barnyard roofs illuminated,
who passed through plucking sheds with now dead eyes hallucinating nothing, no more Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of carnivorism,
or those like me expelled from the slaughterhouse by some trick of pandemic and quarantine, left to wander
to cower unplucked in rooms in unfamiliar underwear, burning their poetry in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall…

II

What sphinx of cement and metal ax bashed off their heads and ate them up with sauce of cranberry and mashed yams?
Thanksgiving! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Turkeys screaming under the stairways! Turkeys gobblesobbing in flocks! Old poet turkeys pardoned and weeping in the parks!
Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving! Nightmare of Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving the loveless! Mental Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving the heavy judger of turkeys!
Thanksgiving the incomprehensible prison! Thanksgiving the crossbone soulless jailhouse and kitchen of sorrows! Thanksgiving whose heaping platters are judgment! Thanksgiving the vast stone of war! Thanksgiving the stunned governments!
Thanksgiving whose mind is pure machinery! Thanksgiving whose blood is running money! Thanksgiving whose fingers are ten armies! Thanksgiving whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Thanksgiving….

The Habits of Five Happy Couples

Have you ever caught yourself staring out the window, maybe your office window, watching someone younger than you get into their car up the street, or unloading groceries from their trunk, wishing for a little more peace, happiness, respect, joy, sex, love, agape, laughs, intimacy, happiness and peace in your relationship? Or perhaps, instead of giving mutual support you find yourself stuck (unstuck) inside a negative feedback loop itself unstuck (stuck) within a chronographic experiential time cycle in which you zoom around your life in circles, or figure eights, back and forth and around and around, experiencing the same pathetic, depressing conflicts over and over.

If that is the case, and for many of us it is, there is a good chance that you sometimes wonder why your relationships, and life in general, suck so bad while other people’s lives and relationships seem so awesome. And, statistically, you have at least three feet of shelf space in your home library devoted to self-help relationship books promising clarity about all the ways relationships fail, but look here’s the problem:

Smoothly functioning, harmonious relationships are only possible if one or more of the participants settle for less than they need, hold back, suffer in silence, give in all the time, or all of the above, or get even through indulging their bad habits.

While popular entertainment, and pretty much everything else about modern capitalist society seems desperate to convince people that people stay in love their whole life long and there’s something wrong with you if you feel differently, real relationships are more complicated than that.

Take John and Rebecca. John listens to 80s hair bands and plays air guitar. Rebecca farts before leaving elevators if she’s riding alone.

Or Max and Peter. Max bites his nails, Peter checks whether the front and back doors are locked about ten times every night before going to bed.

George can’t stop putting empty containers back into the refrigerator, no matter how much Jamie yells at him, while Jamie clips coupons and spends more on gas running to multiple stores to cash in the coupons than the coupons actually save.

Mike has a drinking problem and is addicted to internet porn. Martha is attending group therapy as part of a plea bargain following her arrest for shoplifting.

Home alone while her husband Donald is a coma following an opiate overdose, Gretchen steals packages delivered to her neighbors’ houses and stacks them in the spare bedroom and when it is full she drives them out to the desert and sets them on fire.