The Poet has an Existential Crisis

I’m special. I’m chosen.

I’m special. I’m chosen.

I’m chosen. I’m special.

I’m worthless.

I’m what?

I’m what? I’m forgotten.

I’m certain of one thing.

Forgotten. For certain.

Forgotten.

                  A lot.

I’m lucky. I’m grateful.

I’m grateful. I’m lucky.

I’m lucky. I’m grateful.

For what I have lost.

The truth is a lie.

Tied up with some lies.

The truth is tied up.

I    t’                    sa     

              G     

o

                           r                          

   d                            i

          a

                                              n

knot.

Look at it this way.

Look at it this way.

I am what I am:

I am (not).

Nobody’s blameless.

I’m grateful. I hate you.

I’m nobody’s son.

I’m chosen. I’m nameless.

I hate this. I’m special.

I’m lucky. I’m worthless.

Look at it this way:

I’m nobody’s son.

I’m certain. I’m special.

I’m certain of nothing.

I’m nothing for certain.

I’m lied to.

                    A lot.

I’m chosen. I hate this.

I’m hateful. Forgotten.

Look at it this way:

I’m lost in the lies.

I am what I am.

I’m nobody’s son.

I’m certain. I’m worthless.

I’m nobody’s choice.

I’m special. I’m chosen.

I’m grateful. I’m not

I’m nobody’s truth.

I’m the son they forgot.

Envoi:

And I’m me. But I’m not.

And I’m me. But I’m not.

And I’m me. And I’m me.

And I’m me.

                      But I’m not.

Ice-Cream Blues

'... Magnum ice-cream...' - Jeremy Clarkson

‘I don’t eat ice-cream. It’s something to do with being straight. Ice-cream is a bit you know...’ – Richard Hammond

‘...hahaha ... (ice-cream)... hahahaha... (you know)...’ – the audience

What massed inadequates are these? What fools

whose foul, unlettered laughter spills like shit

from fetid mouths and vicious hearts? They are

not men, but weaklings all: too delicate

from fear of sexuality not theirs

to feel the brutal damage which they cause.

   How fitting that such lame unsavouries

should take their flaccid cue from one who is

so pusillanimous he fears to eat

an ice-cream on a stick. But what’s to fear

from mere confection? What’s to fear when all

that’s there is nothing more than ice-cream on

a stick? What’s seen depends upon the man

who sees: he sees the thing he wants to see,

and thus reveals himself. And this man sees

no harmless, childish ice-cream on a stick:

he sees a large, intimidating cock.

His masculinity under attack –

from whom? Himself of course; his mind; his thoughts –

he cannot shake this phallic vision from

his troubled, scared imagination. Look!

For now the ice-cream in his mind is oozing

its sticky cream all down his manly hand.

‘Out! Out! Damned spot!’ But from where? And as what?