George Lucas tried to fight the Vietnam War with Ewoks,
Uni students used sayings and slogans,
Figured they could fight a war,
Against the war if they wore badges,
Placards with platitudes like,
No blood for oil, only bush I trust,
Only I don't know what that's supposed to mean,
Because I sure-as-fuck,
Don’t trust the other type of Bush much either.
Don't get me wrong I'm on your side in the sidelines,
It's just that I like to play hard to get with my allegiances,
Yet am real slutty and sleep around with my cynicisms,
I’m an equal opportunist.
Because if justice is blind,
Then injustice is looking right at you,
And down your open collar,
Leering at the goods in jovial jocular vernacular.
I’ll redistribute the world's mirth,
While westerners' waistlines increase in girth,
All that waist and the belt buckle breaks,
And I could use a break in the chains of poverty,
Turn them into fashion accessories,
Goes well with your hir shirt,
Break the cycle of carrying your crosses
And getting cross with your parents.
These are,
Issues of impoverished metaphors that I over-produce,
Flooding world markets with over-priced unnecessary poetry and verse,
That I never make enough time to (uh what was it)… rehearse,
Inbuilt redundancy that I've built into this redundant sentence,
Slavishly labouring away below the propriety line,
Third world, third class, third bass,
Fourth time lucky.
Advertisers,
Got me fooled into thinking,
Thinking they're hip and that I can be,
But my black jeans aren't tight enough,
Wait a minute I haven't got any,
Patience,
Is a virtue like other virtues I can't remember,
Remember there were about seven of them though,
Kinda like the deadly sins,
I got a handle on the deadly sins,
And is it just a coincidence that there are 7 of each?
Maybe they should get together and duke it out,
The winner takes all and you can take it from me.
Battle of the sins and virtues, that’s a true spectator sport,
And you can leave us out of it,
They could have a showdown down at the battleground.
Like at the end of that movie the wanderers only less…
Only less,
Less like it's a relatively obscure early 80s cult film classic,
Directed Phil Kaufman.
But I don’t got time to explain about that now,
We’re out of its stock,
And I’m on the clock,
On the dial, on the edge,
On the phone, on the mend,
On a bender, on a quest,
On a soap box,
On a roll,
On facebook under a fake name,
Underneath the radar and beneath your contempt,
Beneath my dignity? … Hehe
Well now that's getting pretty fuckin' low,
Especially by today’s standards.
Because these days,
Kids can even get bullied over the internet,
Threatening emails and cyber space,
So it all starts to seem as appealing as Siberia.
Like there ain't nothin’ out there but a vast electronic wasteland,
Fields of frozen forest,
Frost bitten bitches bitchin' about emo,
Emo? Ain’t your thing bro?
Well to tell you the truth,
I think you’re just mad about your lost youth,
You criticise the kids now as if you were never young,
Determined to prove you too were different,
No? Like you never wore strange clothes,
Or felt like dying, maybe I'm lying,
Or assuming too much,
I'm not, after all basing this on any evidence,
Only this feeling in the air…
Or maybe it’s a smell…
Smells like teens drinking spirits.
Maybe that's just me and my liquid breakfast,
90 proof and I got nothing to prove,
Except that I can get drunk,
Drunker than you, much drunker that you!
So I can start yelling a Marlowe line or two at you,
At midnight mid city before doing a round of one-arm push ups,
I’m pushing 30,
Better grow up sober up?
Shut the fuck up!
Sobriety is a fine thing in moderation.
But overrated and its effects wear off quickly.
I’m a godamn poet don’tchya know it,
And I'm fielding questions like
"Haven't you got anything better to do?"
Scratch my head for scratching my balls,
And turn back to the computer screen,
Looking for the answers to come careening out of a keyboard,
With the clocks pendulum,
Threatening to dismember me at every stroke.
Death wears a smile,
Time wears down my defences
And my jokes wear themselves thin.
I might be becoming unbearable,
But I’m still smarter than your average bear,
If just barely.
Stayed back late at work and mucked around photocopying my soul,
Got caught by the cleaners who took me to the cleaners
To keep my dirty little secret,
Although I secretly desire to tell everyone my dirty little secrets,
Which I guess is why I write and perform this stuff.
I want to find catharsis,
Meaning, pathos, mojo,
New depths of self expression and poignancy,
I really want to get laid.
But this payoff has been much delayed.
Ain’t kidding,
Ain’t funny,
You think I’m in this for the money
Or the fame,
Well think again stranger,
It’s all just a set of stages,
And I’m gonna take ‘em one at a time.
I'm so afraid of what's next,
Afraid of what I might say,
And what's left unsaid,
Where the Devil himself fears to tread,
Angels are on my shoulder whispering dirty limericks,
That I don't have the balls to recite here.
That ball's in your court,
I am shit at sport,
Far too short, besides,
That's the best excuse I'm gonna give you.
So excuse me,
For making excuses.
But if you'll excuse me,
I’ll be off,
To get my rocks off,
I'm late,
And I'm not even dressed the part,
All I got is what I'm wearing,
You see,
I've traded my dignity with the emperor for some new clothes,
And I don’t know much about fashion,
So can you take a look and tell me…
What do you think?
___________________________________________________
The title kind of bothers me at this point. I originally wrote this March 2008, in one hit, and performed it less than 45 minutes after finishing it. But, by now the damn thing's been edited far too many times to any longer pretend it is "stream of consciousness" ~ then again, the substance and structure have not changed at all (cut out a few awkward lines and replaced 'em with a few bridges), and I've never been able to extract a better title from between my ears. So it stands.
Speaking of my idiocy ~and my inability to overcome it, check out a response to the now infamous "breasts" poem. I ain't gonna reach for that Oscar Wilde quote about the kinds of attention you get, but hey...
http://hell-and-awe.blogspot.com/2009/06/upon-watching-your-great-ode-to-breasts.html
-Peace
.
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