there's a girl behind me
wailing, falling to pieces,
and i'm too terrified
to even turn around.
I feel like an *******.

I turned off my music
to hear what she was saying.
she only screamed.

I looked around the bus and saw
that everyone was doing
as I was doing:
listening, but trying to look
as though we weren't listening.

we were all embarrassed
that someone was breaking down
and it was too real
for any of us to accept.

what's wrong?
what can I do to help you?
come for a walk with me.
let me hold you.

these are some of the things that
I was screaming inside my head,
but I
couldn't
even
turn
a-*******-round.

today I read a series
of rules
for writing poetry.
one that caught my eye was:

"If it hasn't been edited, it isn't a poem. It is a draft."

it was stated with such conviction, I was convinced.
I said to myself:

"I've never written a poem... these are all
drafts."

but this guy also said:
never rhyme,
use the word soul
and you should be shot,
if it doesn't sound beautiful
it isn't a poem.

also he was writing rules
on how to write poetry.
who does that?
I resolved that he must be
a pretentious ******.

this is the raw stuff
that we all have to work with.
but no one ever publishes
their first draft.
so we're stuck
living in our own raw
footage,
and comparing it to
everyone else's highlight reel.

if you don't want to call this
poetry, that's fine.
you can **** on
my initial *****.

I wanted to write a letter
for this ******* the bus,
but all i had to write on
was a banana.
so I wrote:

"when i saw you,
just now,
you are the most
spectacularly beautiful thing
i've ever seen
just now,
when I saw you."

she ran away.
she didn't touch
my banana.

I have an idea for a film:

A kid, maybe about my age,
is perpetually uncomfortable
with his own existence.
he resolves to
**** himself.

he tries what he assumes
will be the quickest,
most dramatic
and least painful
way.
he takes a toaster
and runs a bath.

the power cord doesn't reach.
he looks for an extension cord.
he cannot find one.

he tries to drown himself
instead.
but his lungs just
won't give.

he tries rat poison.
he only gets so far
before he's throwing up
his guts.
no good either.


maybe he gets so
drastic as to buy
a gun.
but the gun is
a dud:
the firing pin is
busted.


he goes through
several more of these exercises
to no avail.
finally,
despairingly,
he gives up.
upon doing this
the boy becomes
enlightened.
either that or he dies
of cancer.
I haven't made up my mind
on how it should
end yet.

I also wondered
why we call them sunsets,
when the sun is clearly
not the one who is setting.

put yourself in the sun's shoes.
the sun can't set of it's own accord.
the sun doesn't realise it's
making those pinks, purples and oranges
on the horizon.
the sun doesn't know what
a horizon is.

we human beings create all of this.

the human mind makes
the horizon
and then it makes the sun
set on it.
those pinks, purples and oranges
are forged inside your eyes.

next time you see a sunset,
tell yourself:
'it is me who is setting the sun.
the sun is setting
and I am the one who is
doing it.'

feels good, doesn't it?

when taking out a girl
it is important to pick her up from her house,
though it is acceptable to meet
at the agreed location.

at a cafe, you buy her coffee.
at a restaurant, you buy her dinner.
at a bar, you buy her drinks.
buy a lot of them too.
this is only fair as
she gets paid less than you do
more often than not.

you take her hand and
you kiss her.
you hold the door open for her.
she laughs at your jokes.
she dresses up, dolls up and
you tell her she's beautiful.
she can make the move,
but it's better if you do.
but she can, this isn't the dark ages.

this isn't the dark ages.
we can all choose to vote for
kang or kodos.
I do admit, i'd only first heard the word
misandrist a few months ago.
(even spell check doesn't think it's a word).

which reminds me:
you hit her
you **** her
you abuse her
you defile her.
you are the one
who writes this kind of bile.
but it's okay.
we don't blame the bramble
for strangling the forest.
we do blame you for being
the way you are,
but it's okay.
you and I know
your repulsive behaviour is just a
reflection of us.
and we can't rectify a reflection.

surely I can't be the only one
whose poetry is all nonsense.

that's right, i'm not.

kids, next time you're in class and
your english teacher asks you:
"what is the poet trying to tell us?"
you can tell them:
"he's not trying to tell us anything,
it's all nonsense,
we probably shouldn't
even be listening."
the teacher will probably
throw you out.
you should be so lucky.

a poet is someone who tries
to describe the indescribable.
the whole job of the poet is to practice
futility, explore chaos, where's the
sense
in that?

oops.
I may have let the cat out of the bag
there.
that cat and his bag...
get back in that bag

cat.