Sep 2016
i'm rereading a book of published poetry,
and i'm feeling democratic about
fame...
i got a pencil balancing on my ear
like a non-binge drinking Smurf -
i have a doctor's appointment tomorrow
over the phone: a triage, the bureaucrat
lady is clueless about 20th century
mail... post.. you know, lick the envelope
and lick the postage stamp.
she gets about 20 emails a day worth of
cat videos... ****... it's gonna be painful:
i need half a week prior to sending
the notice that i'm almost like an amputee and
i have no recyclable third limbs to attach to the missing
one! woman! understand! she's bonkers about
the calendar and doesn't know
anything about carrier pigeons' intelligence...
woman! not until the date, all mailing services have turned
electronic. no they haven't! the postmen are scared ****-less
but that's beside the point! woman: no, wait until
the exact date of expiration. me: it takes hours
to travel from London to Berkshire!
the transition from 20th to 21st agriculture
of brainwaves, atypical of 19th through
to 20th century differences... she's never learned
arithmetic, but she knows her bureaucratic
rubric limitation like she might know the
holy trinity with the stance: Ayers-rock immobility
to whatever argument might come my way:
this conversation might be monitored and recorded
for "training" / anti-troll purposes -
****, i'm just agonised about the fact that i was
supposed to get a turnip when instead i was sold
parsnip; that can't be good.
but the times i could have taken two girls
to see Aerosmith at Hyde Park
with a joint are long gone, ancient,
fables, Achilles principles the time referencing
to anything curated: passable... turtle mobile...
youth really felt like the Mongolian explosion...
most of the time...
people are wondering
why the 1960s didn't work as much as wondering
why Communism was stage-frightened
by the Pope... at the zenith the 1960s was the bomb...
then it fizzled out... by the time Communism
was underneath a heap of Martial Law
Commandments... no wonder the dual failures...
well, because it isn't really Karaoke these days:
but it's sing-along nonetheless:
genius dries up... if it ain't a Mozart,
then its collective (genus), the the fizzling out of
the once fizzy is harder to take on the chin...
**** and puppies!
oh sure, a success story
in terms of providing the household appliances,
but in terms of art? a ******* failure...
look at them: never the earnest clappers
and idolatry stinkers... Judases among Judases:
or some said: moralising artists is the best gig in town...
we can bank-out the bankers and all
will be frankly worth ***** trained applause...
and they did that, exactly
to the non-existent prose... they sold out artists
and bailed out bankers...
because the sheep always sway with: b'ah, b'ah...
translated into humanity: blah blah.
but i have to admit, it was fun taking two girls
to an Aerosmith gig in Hyde Park,
passing a joint around...
as ever the cenobite...
well, due to motto:
a ***** don't give, a dog don't take -
cos' the elder gent has the influential
chess-moves apiece: colts to the gutter...
yep... ******' worth of ******* stutter.
now i have a book
of poetry, alter.: a word about my "sensitivity",
a doctor's appointment at 8 a.m. to no definite hour,
triage takes 5 minutes... the ingenious n.h.s....
i'm drinking whiskey and staying up all night...
after the appointment for a sick notice
(which, to be frank, the English nation should be
proud of, £120 a week and a free poem in friendly America -
friendly... hmm puff puff a laugh) i'm heading to
my former high school to drop off a book of poems
with the signature: to Meester BUNCE...
who gave me a poetry assignment aged 16
and made me a poet... (no, not the crass pathetic
rhyming types that make it a living rhyming
in advertisement, rather the new-narrator types) -
i'll correct the publishers errors in pencil
and tell him to keep a copy, and stash another copy
in the school library - he always said:
Shaky rather than Shakespeare - never said poaching
a pear...
shaking a spare? shaking a spear?
it really doesn't matter...
i ought to have a shave and leave the goat
where it is...
he wasn't that much for me:
that ingrained emblem of England to later continue:
exacting national pride like Mickiewicz in Poland...
these famous people
just get their remains moved many more times
after they die than the living remortgage during their lifetimes.
and i'm feeling democratic about
fame...
i got a pencil balancing on my ear
like a non-binge drinking Smurf -
i have a doctor's appointment tomorrow
over the phone: a triage, the bureaucrat
lady is clueless about 20th century
mail... post.. you know, lick the envelope
and lick the postage stamp.
she gets about 20 emails a day worth of
cat videos... ****... it's gonna be painful:
i need half a week prior to sending
the notice that i'm almost like an amputee and
i have no recyclable third limbs to attach to the missing
one! woman! understand! she's bonkers about
the calendar and doesn't know
anything about carrier pigeons' intelligence...
woman! not until the date, all mailing services have turned
electronic. no they haven't! the postmen are scared ****-less
but that's beside the point! woman: no, wait until
the exact date of expiration. me: it takes hours
to travel from London to Berkshire!
the transition from 20th to 21st agriculture
of brainwaves, atypical of 19th through
to 20th century differences... she's never learned
arithmetic, but she knows her bureaucratic
rubric limitation like she might know the
holy trinity with the stance: Ayers-rock immobility
to whatever argument might come my way:
this conversation might be monitored and recorded
for "training" / anti-troll purposes -
****, i'm just agonised about the fact that i was
supposed to get a turnip when instead i was sold
parsnip; that can't be good.
but the times i could have taken two girls
to see Aerosmith at Hyde Park
with a joint are long gone, ancient,
fables, Achilles principles the time referencing
to anything curated: passable... turtle mobile...
youth really felt like the Mongolian explosion...
most of the time...
people are wondering
why the 1960s didn't work as much as wondering
why Communism was stage-frightened
by the Pope... at the zenith the 1960s was the bomb...
then it fizzled out... by the time Communism
was underneath a heap of Martial Law
Commandments... no wonder the dual failures...
well, because it isn't really Karaoke these days:
but it's sing-along nonetheless:
genius dries up... if it ain't a Mozart,
then its collective (genus), the the fizzling out of
the once fizzy is harder to take on the chin...
**** and puppies!
oh sure, a success story
in terms of providing the household appliances,
but in terms of art? a ******* failure...
look at them: never the earnest clappers
and idolatry stinkers... Judases among Judases:
or some said: moralising artists is the best gig in town...
we can bank-out the bankers and all
will be frankly worth ***** trained applause...
and they did that, exactly
to the non-existent prose... they sold out artists
and bailed out bankers...
because the sheep always sway with: b'ah, b'ah...
translated into humanity: blah blah.
but i have to admit, it was fun taking two girls
to an Aerosmith gig in Hyde Park,
passing a joint around...
as ever the cenobite...
well, due to motto:
a ***** don't give, a dog don't take -
cos' the elder gent has the influential
chess-moves apiece: colts to the gutter...
yep... ******' worth of ******* stutter.
now i have a book
of poetry, alter.: a word about my "sensitivity",
a doctor's appointment at 8 a.m. to no definite hour,
triage takes 5 minutes... the ingenious n.h.s....
i'm drinking whiskey and staying up all night...
after the appointment for a sick notice
(which, to be frank, the English nation should be
proud of, £120 a week and a free poem in friendly America -
friendly... hmm puff puff a laugh) i'm heading to
my former high school to drop off a book of poems
with the signature: to Meester BUNCE...
who gave me a poetry assignment aged 16
and made me a poet... (no, not the crass pathetic
rhyming types that make it a living rhyming
in advertisement, rather the new-narrator types) -
i'll correct the publishers errors in pencil
and tell him to keep a copy, and stash another copy
in the school library - he always said:
Shaky rather than Shakespeare - never said poaching
a pear...
shaking a spare? shaking a spear?
it really doesn't matter...
i ought to have a shave and leave the goat
where it is...
he wasn't that much for me:
that ingrained emblem of England to later continue:
exacting national pride like Mickiewicz in Poland...
these famous people
just get their remains moved many more times
after they die than the living remortgage during their lifetimes.
