Saturday, 31 December 2016

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.
                  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     
   d                            i

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.

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.

Tuesday, 27 December 2016

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?