He lived like a suicide
but, as luck would have it,
he was philosophically opposed to it,
so he was kept alive, logically.
Theoretical carpenter, he
chipped away, unskilled and dully determined
he carved an effigy of himself,
one at least he could recognise.
But for a lack of conviction, he
could have been a cold psycho-
path, or a Tory, hating himself some more
for lacking aspiration to live.
Now, near the end, cruelty and pity
whistle amongst the false viscera
working, toiling in books, still
to read himself into some kind of existence
beyond the clumsily functional.
At least he can, for the moment, fashion a smile
after all, he doesn’t yet have to turn on his lathe
A cynic’s hymn
Though they talk from the valley of dearth
I’ll tell my children that nothing’s perfect
we expect to be tenured to processed nullification
then tell our children that nothing’s perfect.
We bang on about happiness being a state of mind
then determine to tell our children that nothing’s perfect
We are told, by liars, that aspiration is all that’s holding us back
so we tell our children to aspire to nothing’s perfection
we know reality and its wretched bases
and teach our children that its nothingness is perfect
we accept our experience is defined by the lottery of dreadful accident
we dream that money should accommodate human values
then teach our children that money is human value and its nothing’s perfect
we promote the idea that compensation validates life
and tell ourselves that nothing’s perfect
we have commodified our hearts, minds and souls and free exchange
and insist that nothing’s perfect
we have faith in the obsessive production of perfect, right-first-time nothing because we know, absolutely, nothing’s perfect.
JUST A COUGH
I had a thought that made me cough
No, don’t scoff
I had a notion that made me sneeze
Don’t mock, please
then I imagined and it made me spew
Conceptually, I’m the same as you
then I had a great idea
I nearly died.
it ain’t half bad
to feel a tad sad;
it is a sin
you haven’t gone
Words carry viruses
that make me ill;
funny thing is
I don’t want to shut up.
WITHOUT: A BIT OF FUN
Without a muse
I’m left to amuse myself
I can’t laugh at anything
I cannot mean something
Without necessary skills
My narratives kill interest
I cannot outwit a twit
I cannot outdo a twhat
I cannot stand under any window
Without good attributes
There can be not a tribute said of me
I, abandoned to myself
Without a muse…
SUN AND AIR
I went outside to deliberately be just anytime
with pockets full of air like sails.
I think I’ve inherited a love of outdoors:
not the must nearly die to feel like I’ve lived one;
But the ah, living is easy unencumbered, deep breaths of freedom one;
Nor the sponsored, without money this doesn’t mean anything one;
But the guilt-free, awed appreciation of nature one;
you know, the one that costs nothing to be kind.