Three Little Scribblings in my Notebook

Idiot Rich Kids

Please drive to school in your Beemer’s,
won’t you please?
so the rest of your pupils may admire thee
Ignore the stop signs
on Claremont
three idiot friends
with you on board
And should I be surprised
(with your arrogant rush)
when you crash into
a city bus?

But in that bus
there sat a man
a snow white beard
upon a charcoal tan,
a native from his sunny land
a carved, wooden staff held in his hands
He sat so solemn
multi-coloured dream-coat he wore,
despite the frozen rain
which torrentially poured
Among him
(wondering how this man did not freeze)
the youth, ipod-deaf, stare
dressed obviously in Canadian geese

And yes, he sat,
amidst the clash
the car rammed into
his lower back
and rather than yell,
barrel of a gun,
he simply thought
the colours of the sun.


Repatriation

Tis' hard to stay awake
in a flamboyant clambake
resto of lost calls
like a million little ivory dolls

Nigs, figs, drigs and higs
man cannot believe these silly things
Greenland white and Iceland green
buttons pushing at the seams


The Death of the Author

Title track rolling,
typists lacking style,
though integrity misgiven
through a series of masturbatory virtues.
Values
conclude
unfortuitous
glances.
Lack of proper judgement,
you cannot tell me
that I am dead.
For death of the author
brings forth death of the context
the literature
the angst,
and emotion
The story
the spirit
I am not a warrior
I am not a mouse
I am not a metaphor,
for they have all run out.
My neck aches,
my arms ache,
my back aches,
aches from the arches of brows
and intentional content
a parody
for my so-called lack of formalism.
Fuck you formalism
for you are the death of us all.
For once you rob us of our affection,
there is nothing left but instructions.
Good mourning oh mourning
and evening and night
I bid adieu
to someone as ignorant and as fascist as you,
who tells me that I have died and how,
when I know you are really for the mal.