Author’s Note

Ayo…

Tony Stanza is back.

And apparently, he has beef with another poet.

Unfortunately for that poet, Tony has discovered pasta.

Impasta (A Diss in Pasta Form) is exactly what it sounds like: a diss poem written almost entirely through pasta-related wordplay. Spaghetti becomes “impasta.” Fettuccine becomes “alfredo.” Macaroni becomes a metaphor for having no backbone. Ravioli becomes something that folds under pressure.

And Tony is absolutely convinced this is devastating.

That is what makes Tony Stanza fun.

He isn’t trying to be subtle. He isn’t trying to sound sophisticated. He is a fictional poet who has apparently decided that every pasta dish is an opportunity for literary violence.

But underneath the ridiculousness, there is a real little diss hiding in here.

The target isn’t merely being called a bad poet. They’re being accused of being derivative, fragile, empty, and dependent on other people’s work. The pasta metaphors are ridiculous, but the criticism itself is surprisingly straightforward:

Your work isn’t yours.

Your confidence doesn’t survive pressure.

And underneath all that presentation, there’s nothing there.

Of course, Tony couldn’t possibly just say that.

He had to make it about spaghetti.

This is also another piece in the growing mythology of Tony Stanza—the “greatest poet you’ve never heard of,” a poet whose signature “Ayo…” apparently signals that something deeply unserious is about to happen.

If I write anything pasta-related from this point forward, Tony Stanza did it.

I don’t make the rules.

Tony does.

— Rowan Evans

Impasta (A Diss in Pasta Form)
Poetry by Tony Stanza

Ayo…

I call you spaghetti—
because you’re just
an impasta. (Imposter.)
Your rhymes are cheesy.
Parmesan.

All these suckers fettucine.
They alfredo. (afraid though.)
Yeah, these bitches is macaroni.
All elbows. No backbone.

They talk a lot a ravioli—
but fold when pressure hits,
seam splits—
and you realize they were
full of nothing, no substance.

You thought you were angel hair, capellini,
the chosen one—divinity with a pen.
But you’re just thin-skinned, overcooked,
fragile to the core.

Journey into the Hexverse…

[Lost in the Sauce]
A playful heartbreak poem where sandwiches, ketchup, mustard, rye, lettuce, and sourdough become metaphors for emotional confusion. Beneath the food puns is a speaker trying to understand how everything went from “we’re okay” to suddenly feeling cold.

If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]