Saturday, September 13, 2008

3 pomes

I am an ironing board

I am an ironing board
I can be hot and flat
I can even get very heated at times,
But, I feel no emotions
About this or that
Things get laid on me
Things get straightened out
I am an ironing board
This is what I am about

I am a Tiger
I am a Tiger, burning bright, in the forest of the night,
Or in the day, and in the shade, lying, watching in a glade
Where golden light is stripeing down
Through green foiliage and leaves,
Me almost invisible
Except for my
Unbliking eye
Which only the dying should see
I am a Tiger and
I once heard a philosopher teaching, he said
“Philosophy is like searching for a black cat in a darkened room at night with a
brown paper bag over your head. It is totally out of court. It is just not cricket.”
I thought that this did not concern me because,
I am a Tiger, not a black panther,
But lest some roving forest gypsy passing by
With a handmade flintlock gun made out of an old gas pipe
Should descry my unblinking eye
And shoot me through it
In order to sell my powerful powdered penis
To give another Chinese millionaire
A hard on that he doesn’t really need,
I stir myself
And pad out across the jungle floor
Yes I think I’ll eat a philosopher tonight
Knock of the back off his head with one swipe of my paw
Lick all the knowledge porridge out of his skull
With my abrasive tongue
So that I then might know
What he was talking about
Or I could like my northern brothers
Up in the snow
Go for a Siberian
But that might just be like
Drinking a gallon of vodka.

Waking up in wet November
Crawling into clothes
Crawling into types of transport
That take you where you don’t want to go
To spend a day
Doing what you don’t want to do.

That is depressing.
Or hearing the radio, early in the morning
State the date
When that day is the day of the exam
Or the day when the dentist will drill your gob down to the nerve
Or the day when the bill hits the doormat
Or the day when the shit hits the fan
But nothing is more depressing than
Hearing a crowd enthusiastically applauding
A leader’s speech.
I’d rather be a shepherd
Stuck up some celtic shitpile in the rain
Hearing the bleeding sheep, bleeding bleating
Again and again and again
Than ever have my aural orifice offended
By the happy clappiness of humans surrendering their humanity
To some blonde political phantasy

Oh, leader, leader
Take it all away
Take us up to heaven today
Where sweet sky pie is free
And we never pay
And all our headaches have gone away
Because all our thinking is over and done
It’s all all over
Because you are the one
Who bathes us in smiliness like the sun.

So clap, clap, clap
You vacuous creeps
Your public grovelling makes me weep
Smack me up, send me back to sleep
Let me die and rot and feed a tree
Because political compost is what I’d rather be
Than ever follow a leader.

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