"absurdities" poems
May we live in and see interesting times, the old saying goes
another offers that when the mind is blind, the eyes cannot see
for me my days are interesting and the laughter readily and often comes
for the grapes of wrath brings forth mirth filled grapes on grapevine tendrils
As lemmings and sheep enact bellyaching absurdities, as the ridiculous does
Veracity on sojourn and falsehood in residence with doors firmly closed
Hamlet re-enacts hapless role, with Red Robin Hood and vigilantes to a tee
eager audiences, participatory scenes in towns and cities, leaving empty homes
come all and vent your spleen and satiate your prejudices without paying a fee
This land belongs to us, it is our birthright and we will send Hamlet to the catacombs
Nothing is private anymore, rights and freedom nailed, anywhere we roam
Ophelia not only went to Italy, she went to Hull, Turnpike Lane and even Essex
but a joke here, if all these were good, why did she come to me, you simple gnomes
perchance unlike you common goons, she knows distinction has no comparison to thee
Your vacuous hate filled mind cannot see that difference in a Prince, that regally looms
Act two, dim, fooled actors in their Beggars Opera, screaming, 'we oppose' with glee
so called republicans, laughable in their ardent favor, ignorant of their lobotomy botches
we will do Hamlet's head in, totally unaware theirs been done in, for the brains of fleas
in a civilisation, our conscious and stable populace, roots for vigilante and mob rule, yeah
for a man of distinction is a threat reminding you of your insignificance and lack of tomes
Come friends, lets see how the home of Democracy, hounds a citizen for us all and we
lets know that Robin Hood is alive and taxing, and 'Windrush' is still active in dispatches
indigenous people power, meets criminal gang stalking, meets racism and we all drink tea
and in true cowardly fashion, its all done by insidious, indictable, nefarious, malcontents and psychopathic crazies
It is our proud duty that we should all ruin Hamlet, for mediocrity has no distinction for aspiration et excellence
Copyright LaurenceA. JUNE 2018.All rights reserved.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC
A story, a story!
(Let it go. Let it come.)
I was stamped out like a Plymouth fender
into this world.
First came the crib
with its glacial bars.
Then dolls
and the devotion to their plactic mouths.
Then there was school,
the little straight rows of chairs,
blotting my name over and over,
but undersea all the time,
a stranger whose elbows wouldn't work.
Then there was life
with its cruel houses
and people who seldom touched-
though touch is all-
but I grew,
like a pig in a trenchcoat I grew,
and then there were many strange apparitions,
the nagging rain, the sun turning into poison
and all of that, saws working through my heart,
but I grew, I grew,
and God was there like an island I had not rowed to,
still ignorant of Him, my arms, and my legs worked,
and I grew, I grew,
I wore rubies and bought tomatoes
and now, in my middle age,
about nineteen in the head I'd say,
I am rowing, I am rowing
though the oarlocks stick and are rusty
and the sea blinks and rolls
like a worried eyebal,
but I am rowing, I am rowing,
though the wind pushes me back
and I know that that island will not be perfect,
it will have the flaws of life,
the absurdities of the dinner table,
but there will be a door
and I will open it
and I will get rid of the rat insdie me,
the gnawing pestilential rat.
God will take it with his two hands
and embrace it.
As the African says:
This is my tale which I have told,
if it be sweet, if it be not sweet,
take somewhere else and let some return to me.
This story ends with me still rowing.
7k
Who can tell?
Whether malice has its own purity?
If odor has its own fragrant smell?
Does right wrong right
Or wrong right wrong?
Could darkness have its own light?
What do you know?
Guilt might have its own innocence
For all you know
Humility and modesty
Could just be a show
This is how life is
You either laugh hard
Or you cry in pain
You love too much
Or you die in vain
If you don’t make someone smile
You end up being a bore
If you dress up too guile
You are tagged a *****
You may be very pretty
but deceitful in act
You may be called ugly
but are beautiful in fact
In sadness
you’re creative
In happiness
well that is tentative
and yet sans it too
you may appear narrative
If you know too much
you realize how less you knew
If you are too ignorant
you realize that all lies are just few
Humor shames trivialities
Irony is the truth about absurdities
We scorn at all harsh realities
So we smile at its mockeries
Could love really be true?
And hatred absolutely false?
Is sadness a gloom
Covered in joy so sparse
like a dull audience
forced in its applause?
Without a doubt
A truth has a lie hidden
Simply because
The mirror isn’t clear
It hides many flaws
and your aesthetic sin
deep within
If you counted the seconds
and minutes and the hours
Will you still be wasting time?
Or would you still
have to make an orange juice
out of a dainty lime?
What’s rhetoric
if a question has an answer
if silence it’s own message
and guns and bullets
its own power?
What’s the point
If you’re devising a plan
for your future
to become a big man
And you still say
that you don’t know
what might happen tomorrow
That it all looks bleak and dark
And you sit there
not working hard
you crib and worry
and fake a smile
to everyone
you appear
as blithe as a lark
We dwell with glee
In a world where
two extremes meet
Order deals with its chaos
And chaos struggles for order
Everyone fights
for the latter
And to straighten
an imbalanced balance
and dispel a dulcet clatter.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 6:26 AM UTC
Do not bother me with your absurd theories;
Reason, logic, and evidence have no place
In the heart of the true and righteous believer.
Faith in holy texts should be your guide,
Your faith should be blind, unadulterated, and quintessential, or
Risk a dreadful and eternal damnation.
If Einstein knew so much
Why do they call his premise the “Theory of Relativity”?
If Darwin was so sharp, why is it the most
He could up with was the “Theory of Evolution”?
The answer is simple, they really had no clue,
They simply did some scientific research and, in the end,
They came up with nothing more than theories.
And, what about all those archeologists
Claiming the earth is billions of years old, or
Cosmologists with their “Big Bang Theory.”
Everything is nothing more than
Theories, theories, theories.
Turn your back on these absurdities;
Trust, instead, the ancient, sacred texts
That offer immutable, unquestionable truths.
How ludicrous the idea that
The world is more than 10,000 years old,
(Carbon dating of fossil rocks is just mambo-jumbo)
The universe and all creation
Were made in six days,
God, tiring after all that work,
(Wouldn't you after working 24/6?)
Rested on the seventh day.
It's there in black and white,
For everyone to see.
(Assuming you've read the right version)
Men were created from a clod of clay,
(Or mud, but you get the point)
Women from the rib of man
(Which is why they should be subservient to men).
What nonsense from biologist and paleontologist
That claim we evolved from micro-organisms and apes,
This notion is total sacrilege, a blasphemy.
Life is too complicated, too complex to just evolve,
Intelligent Design is the only answer,
All the talk to the contrary is nonsensical hyperbole.
God made everything happen.
Read the holy texts, the truth is as obvious,
As plain as the tip of your nose.
Everyone knows that all the anthropological data,
All the purported archeological digs,
With reports of dinosaurs and missing links,
Are fabricated to fit nerd scientists' preconceived notions of
What they would like everyone to believe.
When in doubt, refer to the holy texts,
You will see all the unsubstantiated, ludicrous claims
For what they really are:
Trash, trash, and more trash.
Do not bother me with your facts, or
Your scientific data or findings;
In the end, everything boils down to more idiotic theories.
Have unquestioning, blinding, and total faith,
Read the holy texts and they will set you free.
So, the next time someone questions your beliefs,
Claiming there is no merit or facts to support them,
Remind them that to question the word of God
Will send them, along with their theories,
Straight to hell.
Amen!
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 6:19 PM UTC
I - WORDS LIKE PRISMS
The crystal awaits the perfect slant of sun.
The world turns just so and refracted light
Hurls a color blaze against the wall.
So it is when a long awaited word
Forms on the lips of the wise.
II - WORDS LIKE FLAX
In the fire of conflict,
Words fall to the floor like mounds of charred flax.
Red–faced saints gather clumps to themselves
To spin into finest thread for self-flattering raiment.
III - WORDS WITHOUT WORDS
When pain burrows deep in the marrow
Where words cannot assuage
A gentle touch can bleed some out
And channel hope back in.
No words can spell a kind caress.
IV - POISON WORDS
Beware the charismatic
Carrying a jar of poison pills!
Cover your glass when he passes your way
Or he’ll slip one in unawares.
V - LAUGHING WORDS
Absurdities and failures are the stuff of jokes.
Long live non sequiturs and double entendres!
We love a clumsy tumble into the drink
As long as nobody drowns.
VI - WORDS FOR BUILDING
Of course you can!
I place my total trust in you.
VII - WORD PAINTING
Mister Frost's words never made a wood
Or caused a harness bell to shake.
Even so I’d travel many miles
To see his imagined snow accumulate.
VIII - THE GIFT
My cat, Zoe, never says a word to me!
He doesn't have the tongue or lips or larynx for it.
He cannot fit his paws around a pen.
His brain’s too small for metaphors.
The gift belongs to us alone.
To craft words to build or **** or heal.
Forgive us Zoe for doing little with so much.
July, 2006
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
To start --
being an adolescent with autumn eyes,
seeking a prophecy for long-standing bravery
to further the spinning spokes for minutes, five more,
I burned the drapes to reveal a humanity only I could see.
The expectations were elaborately existing, unsatisfying. Sons
and fathers, years refrained from matters
that reverse reverse reverse curses and maturity
without purpose.
Those idle accepted neglect, and the existence of an
unsalted bridge was quickly detained. Alone, the foolish described
to search for the future in geometric formation and coffee ring
stains fading the desk.
But the sense proposed in my decided equality drank dignity
straight from the bottle. The road that lead me between two cliffs,
Propriety and Statistics, with the rocks already pelting down,
could not diminish my enthusiasm for necessary absurdities.
There's no flesh in declared mediocrities.
I became a luminary for pleasures of eminence, hope with resolve,
opportunities in destiny. Blind gambles obliged the fear of exacting
sensibility. Passionate follies created no-regret-consequences,
satisfied stability. Only the **** are granted victories in eternal gaiety.
Mortality is irrelevant if you let mystery be your urgency.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC
It seeps into my body like an invisible ink
following all the misleading signs of my mind.
I try not to listen to its absurdities
I try not to be afraid if they are true.
But I can’t help but wonder
Do they know something I don’t?
My logic often gets in the way,
constantly in disarray.
I beg my heart to listen to my head.
My head tells my heart to listen up good.
But my heart...
That cavity in my chest that brings me so much unrest.
It makes me cower in its power. It owns me
Something deep inside.
A force so abundant I struggle to hide.
It knows.
Everything.
I can feel it.
And is wrenching me apart.
Its not enough.
Doesn't fill my veins with the right kind of blood.
Its too thin,
Pleasures of this kind of life leave me slain.
I would rather have pain, intense pain.
Than this normal feeling.
Life is not meant to be a stroll
but a panicked tumble into the unknown.
Full of wonders and delight and confusion
and well I don’t even know
I would love to open my eyes
Really really wide
See what is right in front of me.
What my heart can see and I now I bleed.
My hands caress a body that is controlled.
But inside lays such a storm.
It is scratching on the walls of my skin.
It sends messages through the breath going out and in.
It allows little whispers to flow through my heart to my head.
Unless you are totally alive then you are part dead.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 6:59 AM UTC
I felt like I cried too much just then, with my head in your lap and my cheeks stinging with salty tears.
I want to die today, but I can't bring you with me.
I can't bring you with me in the bleak narrow curvings of my soul absent doubt.
I hate hating myself so much.
When I look in the mirror I judge from predisposed and painted self doubt.
I trim my frame with unrealistic absurdities that make matters worse by setting them self up for failure to begin with.
I do not think one should continue to prevent them self from cutting off their own airflow to preserve another being's feelings.
Though the act of suicide is selfish, and abstaining from the act to keep others from blaming themselves is in fact selfless; however perpetual self loathing is almost as demanding a lifetime of guilt that comes out of wishing you could have done something to help.
I sit on the inside looking out. And more of the time I am perched in there, I am looking around, from within.
Disolving the interior and remembering the good old walls.
What happened to those willful walls and forgiving storage areas? Nothing is ever good enough; like a mingy white room-once coated twice, but over time has been repainted in folding colors, creating a texture that was not meant to gain, nor pleases as a result.
I want all of the excuses and laziness and hastiness to melt away and the chaos that sits with darkness at the corners of everything, to fall away as toxic as they are, and I want to sit outside of myself and watch in praise and humble patience.
Jan 18, 2010
Jan 18, 2010 at 1:21 AM UTC
Standing, soaked, out in a storm, gusts of wind whipping my hair around wildly
Unruly strands sway with the song of chaos, pulling at my scalp, snapping, lashing at my face
My existence is all reality as this whirlwind tempest frantically thrashes about my flesh
In the complex puzzles and foolish games, a simple madness lives, and therein lies my freedom
My tongue and lips sometimes flap boisterously from their spot on my face
And the noises risen up from my throat, and passed through my mouth are meaningless blubberings
Involuntarily, I grin, tasting the nonsense's unique sweetness, and I swallow
My laughter rings out, a vociferous and untameable sound; humor, the voice of a crazy woman
And I spin! Oh, I spin and spin and spin, savagely, in ellipses, ovals, and circle shapes
I've no shame, and this dance is all mine, so I maniacally fling my arms through the air
And as my body makes its revolutions, a fierce smile curves the shape of my lips, wrinkles the corners of my eyes
Inside my mind, wandering - wondering if there's any real difference between elated insanity and that which I crave...
Some people might use words such as eccentric, strange, whimsical, and peculiar for what they cannot understand
So very often I hear these such words being used from those who speak of me
But it is them whom I perceive as being rather off, so habitual and boring, living like routine enslaved, joyless zombies
So unfathomable to me, why most everyone seems to desire nothing beyond a passionless, hollow schedule to, every day, just repeat
Me... I'll race barefoot down a gravel path, through lightning, thunder, and rain, only to feel my hair being twisted and tangled up in the wind
I'll jabber absurdities, laugh like a loon, all while I spin contentedly around and around, until, stupidly dizzy, I crash and fall
Madness pays little mind, stands without worries or concerns, because it believes - it knows, most nothing matters
This is my freedom, freedom that cannot be shared, for what it is, is something that's only freeing for me...
~A. D. Smithson MARCH 2013
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 4:58 AM UTC
There is always the world that does not forgive
absolute unforgivess
The unbroken trauma in an event
Fearless
Never wavering into the assumptions of indulgence
Never paused long enough
to be understood properly
yet it drives the will to understand
The intervals between events of indulgence
in the frivolity of language
making bare the absurdities
Like fire that needs intelligent attention
to keep us warm
Neglect it and it consumes us all
This world demands a history of its own
Untainted by the acceptance or disputes of compromise
Inalienable direction
Weaving us together with unforgiving charm
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 9:55 PM UTC
maybe we were two lonely souls in an
infinite number of universes
that coexists at the same time
so in the least cases when other universes
cease to rotate;
we were looking at each other’s eye—
half consciously exchanging breaths as we stood
in a random street on a random time with random people
in Metro Manila.
maybe we were two lonely souls
devoid of life with its absurdities and ambiguities
that when other universes began to move—
adverse was ours.
we were motionless and breathless
and static and frantic
amongst the dismal place where we stood
under the rain and under the heat of the sun;
*dear, did you feel the spontaneity of our souls
for the first time in a lifetime?*
maybe we were two lonely souls
searching for our own universe in this
infinite number of universes that when
we finally had the chance to meet on
a road with nowhere to go while listening
to our timeless symphonies of pleasure, pain, and lost;
we found universe at each other’s soul.
maybe we were two lonely souls
before we met in Metro Manila.
maybe we were two lonely souls
when we were living in abyss.
maybe we were two lonely souls
before we found our infinite universe at each other.
maybe we were two lonely souls
before we knew love.
(06.19.16)
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
Night finally came down over town and
serenity hit like a scientist.
brilliant
like the man wiping crumbs from
his passenger seat at
a red light.
but the scene isnt what it wants to be,
something mutated between fish and primate
and now the strain's a little wonky
oh the absurdities of a train life!
two poncho clad players on the playas del mexico
he said "i dont
want no flat *** jeans,
i got a donk"
and the book replied
"i would rather lie with words
than people because
words cannot lie to you"
this silly dope fiend's fever dreams
scream lines like
the density of head is not enough
to contain the difference in integrity!
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 8:48 AM UTC
Someday last April
I lost my sincerity
Life became too fleeting to blink at absurdities
and after all, it's all you hypocrite logicians
that ****** **** up for me
but not just me
I'm just drones in society
I'm using a machete as a tea-cup coaster
to protect a table that's hacked to bits
Nov 1, 2021
Nov 1, 2021 at 10:11 PM UTC
Friction addiction
Hostilities slip from blistered lips
Scald the core of me
The I don't love you
War of words
and absurdities
What will it take to please you
Teasing me with shackled pleasure
The measured moments
Your addiction is friction to my spirit
I hear it in your veiled promises and lies
Defies the logic that tethers me
Responisibility
Civility
The trappings of this plastic
Psuedo humanity
Insanity the manacles I drag
Bound and gagged by your perception
The deception of what you choose to see
Skin to skin we writhe enslaved
I will never be set free
TL Boehm
080708
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
strangely, i live in a world of equanimity
even though I am not equanimious.
quite the opposite: I can even loathe good things
and crave terrible things
and everything in between.
when i am at peace with my longing for it, i come out the other side:
the absurdity of it all is no longer new,
and the sense of possibility
torments me so much less.
long ago, i betrayed any manifesto
i could possibly write.
i am one of the absurdities.
i am not what i am.
good and bad are the boots we need to walk.
one step, two step.
we need more than boots to travel;
and, indeed, you can stay still;
in a sense you could fly instead;
or run, barefoot, calloused, and wild;
either way, the land-sky is,
walk or not, move or stay, see or forget,
it is.
it stretches on, so terribly samely, round.
that is why i am lost
because there is nowhere to go
only to move
and i am alone because
the land-sky is with me, in me, is me, not me.
a place is not really a place
a thing is not really a thing,
nor is it
its opposite
really.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC
i'm not sure how to explain the way i love your fingernails
or lack there of
the way you tug at your shirt collars
and walk like you're tough
i could tell you how your hair reminds me of cotton candy
and how your lips taste just as sweet
they way you drink your water so annoyingly
and make fun of my "baby feet"
i adore the fact that you don't hold my past against me
and how you laugh at my absurdities
i like how you can't eat chocolate
because i eat enough for us both
and how i had to teach you to make scrambled eggs over the phone
i could list your analogies that make sense
but that would be zero
and i'm not sure if i dreamed you up
so i could call you my personal hero
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 1:06 AM UTC
if some electric joy could paint us
here in the vivid shards of wasted glass,
or create a beauty that's never been drunk
we'd question our surreal imaginations,
drugged by passion's symbolic chisel;
the blue aesthetic of an angel's dust,
of abstract life more sensed than performed;
the psychedelic absurdities in bolder strokes:
I'd sing your **** genius sculpted through every world.
Apr 8, 2010
Apr 8, 2010 at 6:19 PM UTC
Change is necessary.
Change is require.
But is change sufficient?
Change is a diversifier.
Change is a niche filler.
But is change transformative?
Change is not good.
Change is not bad.
But then what changes do we keep?
Heuristic small change we like?
Perpetuating idiosyncratic Absurdities?
Selecting traits for "survival"
in a world of our own creation.
Do you understand the Michael Jackson trap?
Real Evolution is easy.
Diversity + Mobility = Survival
But cosmetics is much harder.
What will the monkey see in the mirror?
Will he like my face?
Will I have diversified my humanity,
change my BIOS for faces,
to an arbitrary Facebook,
Unrecognizable to a nostalgic monkey?
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
"my identification lies in the hopeless psychedelic absurdities of ninety year old existentialists and the macabre **** trails of industrialized ghosts
Slaying scissor handed dragons of whirlwind dimensions from plain abject boredom
Smashed with broken Knuckled collisions against walls of mimetic iron and steel
as territorial **** measuring fanatics play out semiotic fantasies of heroic rigor mortis but i don't want to get political
because the cosmic play is of the ancient masters repeatedly tripping over each other
and i don't claim to know the rules if there are any
So for now i will bash my brains and hair against this black holed vacuum of being in itself
and try to remember that the uncertainty principle doesn't allow us to know position and velocity simultaneously
and that by observing the world it is irrevocably changed by the power of Schrodinger's Cat
I would tear that ******* ******* to shreds if I looked in the box
So next time around i'll mechanically saw off my arms and see if they will grow back
and burn gasoline in a shovel mesmerized by the blue flames and melted animal ecstasies connecting all to the light of infinite unknowing"
Said the dog with the bone in his mouth. I asked him
"how can you talk with food in your mouth like that? it's dreadful"
He did not reply.
I pondered his speech on the train home and filled a balloon with nitrous,
tide it off and began to punch it while holding the rubber band attached.
a man with knuckle tattoos next to me popped it with a pen
I miss my nitrous balloon
But i didn't have time to think about it because a Hottentot venus in yoga pants with that *** like bow! just walked past
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
I do not know if what I say to the questions of our absurd existence
is a suggestion or an offer of supposition inherited from the dreams
of a previous life or the dreams of my ancestors
It is not enough to be loved by a silent creator because we must entertain ourselves while we wait for the one who cannot be described except within the limited knowledge we possess of our own being
The question of taking oneself seriously must be answered with regard
to the value we place upon ourselves; are we special because we say so
or because we are loved by a parent we have never met?
But could it be the love of a child that makes us special in that the innocence of children protects their worth as what they desire from us protects our worth as the desire for one another protects our collective worth?
I once found the pursuit of my desires to be the path to meaning; it was as if pleasure was God but it was a God of selfishness and the pursuit of my own glory and when the truth was revealed I became nothing
Is it the impossibility of sustaining the meaning of life for its own
sake that draws forth the belief in the supernatural while simultaneously abdicating a belief in our ability to be empathetic towards those who share our fate?
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 9:41 PM UTC
I might be a little mad
A lot more than a little
But you'll never know it
You'll never see it
Except
If you let me take a peak
At your own madness
Give me a glimpse
Of your delighted delirium
Let me have a look
At your affable aberrations
Your lovely lunacies
And your faithful foolishness
And your foolish faithfulness
Give me a piece of your
Deceitful delusions
And your happy hysteria
And I'll give you a slice
Of my own crazy cake
Balanced with utter unbalance
And dire derangement
And adorable absurdities
And the naked truth
And mad, mad me
Show me your madness
And I'll give you,
Me.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 8:19 AM UTC
artifice, oh artifice of deception
miraculously ameliorated
by a strategy masquerading as a reality
or a reality masquerading as a strategy
leads to unresolved questions
of the perplexities that tug
at the heart of many truths
laying bear the spontaneous rhythms
of a mind in motion with
an unprecedented intensity
of a struggle to articulate
perceptions of a shattered understanding
of absurdities proclaimed as violations
of moral obligation
for morality is nothing more than opinion
that has a treasonous alliance with itself
giving birth to illegitimate validations of stupidity
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 1:57 PM UTC
We have become a society engulfed in static noise
Ineptly assenting to untruths of money-grubbing publicity seekers
Garrulous banter by self-promoting fame hunters
Disintegrating our already fragile minds
Previously destroyed by brain rotting internet forums and absurdities
We are at war with one another with comments and supporting “likes”
My opinion, better than yours because I am louder and angrier
Your opinion, better because it is thunderous and provoked
Execrating each other over the words of self-important personalities
Spewing hate with ads in between.
Let us return to three local channels and phones clutched to the wall
Let’s go back to less information
Go to the library and read more books
Sit and talk with our families
Play outside when it rains
Let us stop listening to news that is no longer news
Because it is all just loud judgment
Let us retrieve the miniscule quantity of hope we once had
Before this world is gone
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 11:04 PM UTC
a talkative beast
spewing half truths
and half lies
confident as the kid
in your class who
always raised his hand
to mouth
the wrong answer
a kettle on the boil
whistling absurdities
shrill as
a woman who
has waited an hour
at the rusty tap
with a blue plastic bucket
to find the last drop
trickle away
a menagerie of vultures
salivating in unison
at moist corpses
in the street and
swooping on the dead
for a quote
like eager students
waiting for exam results
to be plastered
on the notice board
a mercurial mistress
who breaks
a different bed everyday
for limp men desiring
a high-decibel
performance for
a two paisa act
culminating
in a contrived
******
an electronically enabled
carrion crew
reducing pillage
to inches of column
on newsprint
a veritable feast
isn’t it
with Marie biscuits
and steaming tea
there is no escaping
this monster
of many heads
and one tongue
for it whispers
a worldview
its gait
insidious and stealthy
as it pounces
on sheep who
then bleat
its platitudes
as the truth
and nothing but
the truth
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 6:18 AM UTC