If you were to ask me what boredom was, I’d tell you were boring and to stop asking stupid questions, but if you really persisted, I would tell you boredom is the tick tock on the white clock on the white wall of our English classroom.
it’s the thrill of seeing how many dried crackers you can cram into your mouth before your mouth becomes a cracked and dried desert. Boredom is
making up haikus,
Alone but not quite knowing,
How many syllables go on each line
Boredom is haikus.
Boredom is
the decapitation of innocent
grass blades as you listen to an unenthused sports teacher
the blood of your unwitting enemies splattered on your fingers.
Boredom is this boring poem


Now you were never one for boredom;
you enjoyed sitting on the grass, getting a soggy ***,
you enjoyed the crunch of crackers snapping on your tongue,
you really enjoyed
and I still do not know why
making up haikus
you enjoyed the long languorous spaces between lines...





and I guess that really was just you.
But recently the silence has been getting short its rudely interrupted
by forced laughs and nervous glances from eyes that recently went shopping


You jump at every crunch or crack, scared of well…
I don’t know .

And your poetry,
Well, you barely write anymore because you just can’t seem to muster up the energy and you’re just tired and its nothing to worry about and it doesn’t matter anyway because you have an English essay due tomorrow yeah-


And the grass misses your ***


And I miss you


And there’s someone in your place, a lethargic parody, too frightened to pick up the phone, frightened by nothing at all
There’s a black hole in the shape of a friend
hidden behind the comets of comedy and asteroids of avoidance there’s a small hole


I reach in… grasping for a hand,
I catch glimpses. tufts of hair. old coffee smiles
but… nothing
so, I try again

I reach in, grasping for a hand, or even a bone
I catch glimpses of skin, hair, teeth, bone. Nothing
and each time I throw myself into the silent abyss,
batter past the comets and asteroids and reach into that dark expanse I find less and less,
I miss you


I am right outside,
whenever you’re ready to,
we can talk a bit


I’m trying my best ,
and I really care for you ,
but haikus are dumb
accept it, it’s true.


The spot of grass is waiting right where you left off,
the crackers in the tin are there just waiting to be scoffed.
if ever in that silence
you feel yourself alone
just know that in my house,
you’ve found yourself a home.

If you were to ask me what boredom was, I’d tell you were boring and to stop asking stupid questions, but if you really persisted, I would tell you boredom is the tick tock on the white clock on the white wall of your childhood maths classroom.
it’s the thrill of seeing how many dried crackers you can cram into your mouth before your mouth becomes a cracked and dried desert. Boredom is
making up haikus,
Alone but not quite knowing,
How many syllables go on each line
Boredom is haikus.
Boredom is the decapitation of innocent grass blades as you listen to an unenthused sports teacher, the blood of your unwitting enemies splattered on your fingers.
Boredom is this boring poem

Born into this everlasting revolve with few unenthused slowing halts to greet us,
We float into the unknown, knowing only what welcomes itself
We try to dominate through and make our presence known
Only to be cut short by the revolve and the things which inhabit it
To serve as a reminder of just how small we truly are

But we repeat with the most subtle of changes
bUt we repeat with the most subtle of changes
buT we repeat with the most subtle of changes
but We repeat with the most subtle of changes
but wE repeat with the most subtle of changes
but we Repeat with the most subtle of changes
but we rEpeat with the most subtle of changes
but we rePeat with the most subtle of changes
but we repEat with the most subtle of changes
but we repeAt with the most subtle of changes
but we repeaT with the most subtle of changes, until anything at all makes sense

And so onward we chase up hills and into the sky
Until our whereabouts are known, at least in our own minds

Everything feels fake
While I try to reintegrate
I'm so expanded and 3D is so contracted
I'm not even turned on, I'm not even attracted
The way people live, the way people see
3D thinking is a waste of my energy
I'm unenthused by the boredom of this plane
Everyone wants to be in control, everyone wants to stake claim
Stick with profound, stay away from profane
Chill like a tree, step away from the propane
Don't set fire to yourself and your path
Give people room to breathe, no one cares about your wrath
People are so preoccupied with looking like they're cool
But in reality they're nothing but a tool
Now don't get it confused
With something you can use
It's someone that will abuse
They don't care about your views
They only care for what they choose
Which is something where they win and you lose
What is this place with billions of minds
With trillions of thoughts that will be our demise
Self loathing, hatred spewing from one mouth to the next
There's rarely anything spiritual about modern day ***
There's no making love, just hurry up and ***
There's no facing problems, just drink beer and ***
How did I get here, is this really what I have to see
I know what my purpose is, to show people how to be
Not like a preacher, just hand them the key
I know the truth and I live by example
Come see me and I'll give you a sample
Some fall in love when they get a taste
The rest run away in all their haste
Thinking that they're better and smarter and cool
But running from truth just makes them a fool
There's a place and time for what I have to say
But it's not for everyone and it's not everyday
People who hear me are the ones who are supposed to receive
They have a greater purpose if they're able to believe
Knowing there's so much more than what we can see
Go beyond the physical, peak into 5D

I am a freeloader
I am a sack of meat
I am a paper cut
I am a lonely fish
I am a scratch-less compact disc
I am a broken ****
I am a string-less guitar
I am discovering
I am jealousy and rage
I am wrapping paper
I am a toilet bowl
I am a little black book
I am a ****** band
I am unenthused
I am not you
I am a heart on a stick
I am ten toes and a back ache
I am a **** tattoo
I am a bottle of glue
I am so bored
I am not worthy
I am so long and good night

Fingers stained green and blue
With oil paint
Almost as to taint and tempt

Still
As the white streams down
Over the caverns of her hands
Wait as the last of it
Ends up back in the ground
Continue with your lack of plans

A free streak across a canvas
A quick glance over the sky
Initiates inspiration
As she shields her eyes

From the sun and its beating rays
Take a breath and gaze
She’s amazed at all the beauty
And is taken into song
Transforms it into art
As she hums along

Infusion into limbs
Engrained into her mind
She feels tremendous solace
In simply forming shapes from lines

Counting down the days
From the beginning of a year
Documenting in remembrance
To recall both joy and tears

Bike handlebars and fish
And shifting snow and sun
She thinks what will become of her
When all of this is done

She’ll study the mind
And dance through the days
As the last are just beyond
And on the rise
She’ll find the fear in the unknown
In which beauty is disguised

Splash the feeling on a sheet
And see what will become
Snap a photo
Blinded flash
She’s immersed in love

And life and everything
And what all of it means
She’s confused and unenthused
Yet simultaneously intrigued

Among the gifted
Swimming in a fountain
Of insecurity and time
Wrapped up in a blue, knit sweater
As to isolate the mind

To see it all, all of what this is
Through her almond eyes
Is to inspire a kaleidoscope
Of colors that flash across
A blank sky

Although intermittent
It all ties end to end
She’s up and down and back again

So fly girl, fly
I know you well
And your wings will be lined
With stories to tell

She’ll grow and change
Because she’s beautiful
In a way that’s all her own
Rooted deeply in a haven
Herself her home

the monday was, as any mondays are, unexpected and unenthused with the weekend past
i had begun talking to a girl whom i met through mutual friends who frequent our neighborhood coffee shop
we decided to meet at a hookah place notoriously named after our cities zip code; it seemed our small but mighty home was trying to make a name for itself
i had not given her much thought for doing so would cause my knees to weaken and my stomach to churn
but we sat down, ordered our concoction of tobacco and talked about the things we always talked about
amidst a mixture of light conversation laced with slight boredom and tobacco poisoning, she arrived, nonchalantly
towards the end of our visit to hookah 402 I grew weary of another night spent in a mediocre way
it never made sense to me how such interesting people could find so little to do
maybe it was laziness, i don't know
she asked us where we want our night to go and how we wanted it to go
two questions i have asked my friends but have never been able to reach a conclusion or a satisfying end result
furthermore, we got into kaylas car, our first destination was a coffee shop, as it usually is
we got our coffee and decided to use my fake id and get alcohol from a liquor store in north omaha
while i may not have been nervous on the way there, our conversations distracting me from the possibility of receiving a felony, my heart picked up speed when i handed the cashier my fake
we got the alcohol and drove to the nearest gas station for a chaser
while she was in the gas station an elderly man approached our car, immediately putting his shoulders to his jawline in defense
he told us his name, even showed us where it was tatted on his arm, and asked us to drive him to his sister, whose car had just broke down
i guarantee that if she had not been with us, we would have said no, apologetically but fearful of saying yes
however, she was with us,
and with her attitude of all-encompassing love, we said yes and he got in the car
almost automatically the stranger and her began singing a beautiful duet

So I stand here clear of thought
Careless and unmoved unmotivated unenthused
Trying to be motivated inspired interested
Not today
Today I laugh in fates face today I look back and wonder
Of what could have been what should've been what can be
I role in the grass the sun in my face with the cool breeze of summer surrounding me
I fight temptation while knowing I will give in but how far will I go is not up to me
I'm a dreamer full of hope
For this rechid world
I hope to make love live long leave a legacy
I am a dreamer

A moment
Otherwise commonplace

Then
The door swings open
And a word is unenthused - a welcome
"Rosaline" - It's Rosaline's father who is hanging by the back door, clad in a raincoat with palpable raindrops

He's holding something
Small, oval shaped
"It's an egg," he says "A duck egg"

Rose ventures closer, not believing him
She's fond of nature and herb remedies
She sees the gel-like substance, void of protective shell, a faint orange block bobbing ever so slightly inside

She topples to the floor in disbelief
Smiling, grinning, actually, at the discovering

She's also wary

It's fragile

We all come closer
Rose rests a fingertip on the squishy egg
She exclaims, "It's heartbeat. I can feel it's heartbeat."

Its heart is weak, but it's still miraculous to feel

How? Can someone excuse life when they feel it in their fingertips?

The duck inside will one day hatch, soon
I believe it will thrive despite the cold

It will grow, and chirp, and flounder

But it is life

We could not bear to see the elementary duckling die

Because once you've touched life
You long for nothing else

The bus driver is only doing his job-



he says i am out of my zone



come on mate- take a look at the rain-



i just want to get home



never mind- its not too far to walk



as this sudden shower comes steaming down



London Bus lookin all shiny red new in the rain.



so i take cover and hudde on the pavement



and write this poem- as rain spilling over the cracked asphalt



,washing over me toes, into paper wrapper river in the gutter-



search and return to the gushing thames



in drab doorway i see pregnant mother



with dripped make-up and cigarette-



a bloke runs past into the Tote-



theres a stench of Old Holborn and alcohol



The cool dread hipster blackman soundshop-



pumpin out da reggae sound all round



an chillin there inside snug



an outside da rain drippin down.



headless wooden mannequins in windows



indifferent and dead to the scene



model outdated displays



of yesteryears east end Fashion



The screech -grind -halt-



of braking trucks and cars



taxis and buses



and halt heave hum, go off and on



phrases like jazz



emitted from the traffic hissing



on the wet steam road



passing the plain low gates



and walls of modest eastend brick



Little pockets of Istanbul-



vending exotic skewered tastes



empty cardboard boxes piled high on the pavement-



sickly sweet old vegetable odours



curiously shaped paprikas- purple sweet potatoes



- halved pumpkins, ginger aponkenam, breadfruit,



Karla, Kassava and Jamaican mangoes



Ol' Carribean Mama she price the purple p'taters



an mumble she grumble onward, homeward



past the asian butcher selling cows feet



fifty nine pence for two



sad looking cadavers of chickens



comically -hung by their feet



boney alien headless n sad



and blood spurted and smeared



and dried on a cardboard box-



so rich an odour of spice and death-



what words to use



yams and hams and potted jams



shelves stacked with imported cans



grinding horror of the butchers blade



splintered marrow bone in broken bleeding box.



brown Black plantain bananas-



fat black boy in trainers and baseball cap-



kicks a discarded apple about in a puddle-



Illegible torn bills and posters on posts



walls and naked wooden doors



of cracked paint peeling in the rain



Unnumbered identities of unknown ethnic origins



scattered uprooted far travelled communities



stirred in the stew of this eclectic london Crucible



shuffling by under unhappy umbrellas-



an unenthused housewife in tracksuit pushing



twins to the child support centre-



wishin she'd married a bloke with money



north africans in bright kaftans



saunter surreally in the full cool, attitude of summer



somehow the Tottenham and Celtic suporters



seem more misplaced in this scene-



people with gaunt girocheque expressions



huddled in Pub over pints



awaiting the Worlds End



To my left number plates while you wait



keys cut school of motoring special rates



then a right into finsbury station out f te rain



and the scene fades.

The bus driver is only doing his job-
he says i am out of my zone
come on mate- take a look at the rain-
i just want to get home

never mind- its not too far to walk
as this sudden shower comes steaming down
London Bus lookin' all shiny red n' new in the rain.
so i take cover and hudde on the pavement
and write this poem- as rain spilling over the cracked asphalt
, washing over me toes, into paper wrapper river in the gutter-
search and return gushing to the Thames

in drab doorway i see pregnant mother
with dripped make-up and cigarette-
a bloke runs past into the Tote-
theres a stench of Old Holborn and alcohol

The cool dread hipster blackman soundshop-
pumpin out da reggae sound all round
an chillin' der inside an'snug
an outside da rain drippin down.

headless wooden mannequins in windows
indifferent and dead to the scene
model outdated displays
of yesteryears east end Fashion

The screech -grind -halt-
of braking trucks and cars
taxis and buses
and halt heave hum, go off and on

phrases like jazz
emitted from the traffic hissing
on the wet steam road
passing the plain low gates
and walls of modest east-end brick

Little pockets of Istanbul
vending exotic skewered tastes
empty cardboard boxes piled high on the pavement-

sickly sweet old vegetable odours
curiously shaped paprikas- purple sweet potatoes
- halved pumpkins, ginger aponkenam, breadfruit,
karla, kassava and Jamaican mangoes

Ol' Carribean Mama she price the purple Taters
an mumble she grumble onward, homeward
past the Asian butcher selling cows' feet
fifty nine pence for two

sad looking cadavers of chickens
comically -hung by their feet
boney, alien headless n sad
and blood spurted and smeared
and dried on broken ****** cardboard box-

so rich an odour of spice and death-
what words to use?
yams and hams and potted jams
shelves stacked with imported cans
grinding horror of the butchers blade
splintered marrow bone in broken bleeding box

brown black plantain bananas-
fat black boy in trainers and baseball cap-
kicks a discarded apple about in a puddle-

Illegible torn bills and posters on posts
walls and naked wooden doors
of cracked paint peeling in the rain

Unnumbered identities of unknown ethnic origins
scattered uprooted far-travelled communities
stirred in the stew of this eclectic London Crucible
shuffling by under unhappy umbrellas-

an unenthused housewife in tracksuit pushing
twins in double pram and wishing-
she had married a bloke with money

Africans in bright kaftans
Saunter surreally in the cool, attitude of summer
somehow the Tottenham and Celtic suporters
seem more misplaced in this scene-

people with gaunt girocheque expressions
huddled in Pub over pints
awaiting the Worlds End
To my left number plates while you wait
keys cut school of motoring, special rates
then a right into Finsbury station out of the rain
and the scene fades.

Mark Hurlin Shelton   London 1987.

the sun is high and
                        bright
somewhere. not here

though.
god is digging my grave and i entertain them with my impression of the heat death of the universe. it’s not a very good impression.
is this deep enough, god asks. god is unenthused. a beached whale. a flat tire.
i crawl to the edge to inspect.
not even close, i tell god. i’m legit this time. don’t they say six feet?
god stops digging entirely. god belly laughs. god lights a cigarette and drinks long from a bottle i wasn’t invited to.
is this about a guy, god asks. i tell them backyard tombs are always about guys.
i mean a specific guy, god says.
and yeah, i know where this is going. god has good shame tactics. i take god's bottle and drink. it tastes like heaven. salt and milk and feathers.
so i lie.
this is about frank stanford, i say.
i’m still mad he can’t come to my birthday party.
god smiles, and it’s ******. i wonder if they’ve been ******* on my lipstick again. god points a finger gun at my chest and shoots me with flowers.
see, i say. you do get it.
god says, i made it, and offers me a gloved hand.
gloved because god has no hands.
i climb into the grave like it is my bed and this has been a very long dream.
déjà vu, i say. i wrote about this once.
i remember, god says. god pulls an orange out of their pocket and tosses it to me.
was it even real, i ask.
i hold the orange above my head. i make it the sun. high and bright.
somewhere, god says, raining dirt on my corpse. not here, though.

and i’m sorry about stanford.
maybe this time you’ll learn–