DO I GIVE A FUCK?

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DO I GIVE A FUCK?

There he was,

As I bit into my Big Mac,

Throwing shapes;

At whom I am not too sure,

Maybe at himself

Or the devil he clearly had in his pocket;

Because he was dancing on dandelions,

Hopping on hot grilles,,

Twisting, grimacing,

Playing to some mad gallery in his head,

Laughing at a joke somebody was playing,

Or maybe he was just out of his

Dope-fucked mind.

Either way it didn’t matter;

I just wished he would let me

Eat my fucking burger in peace.

LEANING TO THE LEFT

LEANING TO THE LEFT

Ah yes

Leaning to the left

Seems to be all the rage these days

Maybe it’s just a phase

You know

Like leaning to the right

Which, as everybody now knows,

Was just a pile of shite.

Leaning one way or th’other

Won’t necessarily please your mother

Stand up straight!’

Seemed to have been her message

Whenever I wavered from the straight and narrow

‘How many leaned to either side

On that long, laboured march from Jarrow?’

TWINKLE, TWINKLE LITTLE STAR

TWINKLE,TWINKLE LITTLE STAR

A star may look like heaven

From afar

But in reality

It is hell in a jar;

Not a small gold object that twinkles

But a furnace of endless fire

A million miles from being

An object of desire

ROBOTS ARE ASSHOLES

ROBOTS ARE ASSHOLES

Robots are assholes

They hardly ever do what you want them to

And they fall over frequently

Often before you can shout ‘boo!’.

We now have technological asshole-arity

That theological point in time

When our robots are becoming bigger dicks than we are;

And all because we have successfully programmed one

To learn the exact pattern

Of dickishness required to ruin

The mental and emotional well-being of a rat.

A rat! Well, shoot me if I don’t eat my hat!

Robots are assholes

But humans are bigger

When they all lumber down that Yellow Brick Road

Who will ever know which one is Tigger?

COWBOYS AND INDIANS

THE WILD WEST
The Wild West has migrated east
The Middle East near and far
Where the horse has been superseded
By the pick-up, the land cruiser and the car
They race across vast deserts firing bullets in the air
If there’s a name on any bullet
Well, no one seems to care
Shooting up the town was once the pastime of the bad guys
Now it is blowing up the houses
And killing little girls and boys.
The bombs rain down on everyone and everything
Where once it was just arrows
Fired by some pesky redskin.
Looking down the barrel of a gun
Can be intimidating
When it’s eighteen foot long
There are no six-guns or shotguns any more
But rocket launchers, machine guns
And others of such enormous bore
Playing cowboys and Indians was once a pleasant game
But when your opponent must be beheaded
Then it isn’t quite the same.

FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE

Nikolay Gumilev 1886 – 1921, was an influential Russian poet, literary critic, traveler, and military officer. He was arrested on allegation of participation in a monarchist conspiracy known as “Petrograd military organization”, and executed by firing squad in 1921. The case was officially declared as “completely fabricated” and all victims rehabilitated by Russian authorities only in 1992.

THE SIXTH SENSE by Nikolay Gumilev

Fine is the wine that is in love with us,
The goodly bread we wait for from the oven,
And woman whom we have possessed, at last,
After we've suffered under yoke her own.

But what to do if a red sunset freezes
Above a sky that's drowning in cold,
Where there is silence and unearthly peace,
What can one do with the immortal ode?

You can't eat it, or drink, or even kiss ...
The moment fled, and next one now hovers,
And we wring hands, but yet once more miss -
We are condemned to miss and miss it over.

Just as a boy, forgetting games and friends,
Sometimes beholds the girls bath in a river
And, knowing nothing of the loving trends,
Is yet tormented by a hidden fever;

As once in time on overgrowing banks
The moisten creature holed in despair
Of self impotence, feeling on its back
Wings - still unformed and very feeble pair, -


So century after century - when, O Christ?
Under the knife of liberal arts and nature
The flesh breaks down and the spirit cries
As they bear organs of the sixth sensation.

DID ROY ROGERS EVER READ THE ILIAD?

DID ROY ROGERS EVER READ THE ILIAD?

If I had a classical education

I could talk about the Greek Classics

Read the Iliad, and recognise dactylic hexameter:

I would know of the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles

Understand  about  the Odyssey, Homer, Diomedes, Poseidon

And other such matters –

Like who the fuck Perseus was?

But I don’t;

Instead of Greek Mythology

I read about Roy Rogers, Buck Jones, Johnny Mack Brown

And how Billy The Kid was left-handed;

About the gunfight at the OK Corral,

And who shot Jesse James in the back;

About The Lone Ranger and Tonto

And other important stuff like that;

Kemo Sabe?

I wonder if Roy Rogers ever read The Iliad?

MONOLOGUE

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MONOLOGUE

This is not an art society

This is a money society

A pleasure society

With most in an amorphous state

Demanding forms for themselves.

Where is the curer of souls;

He who gives advice to the lovelorn

As well as the thief and the life-taker?

There are no real answers;

So what do you do?

Perhaps the black youth had the answer

Waving a train timetable at me as I passed him by;

He had missed his stop and was shouting

‘You gonna’ help me out? Have you got a dollar’?

‘That depends’, I mouthed silently

‘On whether you have a gun or not’.

Luckily for me he didn’t.

GERONTOCRACY RULES

GERONTOCRACY RULES

Gerontocracy is a word I do not like

Gerontocracy is popularised by silly  old fuckers

Who frequently fall off their (motor) bikes

Gerontocracy is for coffin-dodgers

Who can now afford the platinum model

And peddle dreams that are no longer theirs to peddle

Gerontocracy is doddery rule by senile fools

Who believe they can live forever:

Gerontocracy rules – but only in good weather.

LUNCH OF BLOOD

This is a poem by Saul Bellow. Not sure if it has a title.

“Mice hide when hawks are high;
Hawks shy from airplanes;
Planes dread the ack-ack-ack;
Each one fears somebody.
Only the heedless lions
Under the Booloo tree
Snooze in each other’s arms
After their lunch of blood –
I call that living good!”