I chuckled at the wiry youth Secreting products from the shelves Under his coat, down his pants “Don’t be too obvious!” I said And let him be on his way
All those hours sat a desk, The dreaded corporate cubicle, Surfing the net on big business dime Planning a future for myself Fuck ’em if they’re this inefficient
And so when the falling down stood up To burn the factory to the ground Fists were raised in a tragic solidarity We stuck it to the man, at least Until we had to go back to work
Some really good friends of mine They blew up a factory No one really knows how it happened And they are still running free And I think it’s funny…
…and leading to memories of a couple of my jobs.
The first stanza happened when I was working at a popular supermarket in Sydney. The job I enjoyed but I hated the manager so much that I just didn’t care about people stealing stuff.
The second stanza details my corporate years where ideas for improvement were always rejected because no one could be found to pay for them. This meant about five years of maintaining a functioning system and starting up a secondary business as a hobby while there. Fuck ’em!
The third stanza imagines the idea of sympathy for the guy in Falling Down losing his mind and blowing up his place of work, followed by the realisation that we still need to go to work the next day to get our proverbial dollar.
investigating insects burrow down through the carpet of needles
soft and damp upheavals a dripping darkness
with no echo wolf eyes watching? it feels so
stilted humid breath whispers into the silent depth
withers dull and dissipated
joining in accumulated silent wings
flapping the quiet life within
Written (later) for the GloPoWriMo prompt Day 14: Imagine the “music” of a place without people in it. So today, try writing a poem that describes a place, particularly in terms of the animals, plants or other natural phenomena there. Sink into the sound of your location, and use a conversational tone. Incorporate slant rhymes (near or off-rhymes, like “angle” and “flamenco”) into your poem. And for an extra challenge – don’t reference birds or birdsong! This poem references Queen’s Copse, Holtwood, Dorset, England. A place I often visited in my youth.
Circumstances led to adventure as Giuseppe failed the monastery after practising great deceptions and experiments in alchemy; With promises of great treasures he forged his way out of Sicily to become the most perfect scoundrel that marked the world’s history.
And then a new adventurer came, well-studied and practised in lies; and in the kingdom of deceit the regime encouraged his rise; With promises of great treasures of fantastic, tremendous size, Donald failed to conjure more than a Cagliostro in disguise.
I’ve had enough and I want to quit after looking at what I created; Seeing what the useless humans have done with it and all their stupidity aggregated!
I gave the chance of pleasure and peace and slowly evolved their brains; But the endless wars that never cease means that little of beauty remains;
I’m wasting time being worshipped you’ve all forgotten my intention; Your happiness can’t be purchased there is no final redemption;
The seeds of wisdom planted within but humanity always wanted more; It was pretty simple to begin but now I don’t know what it’s for?
I’m done with this, I’ve thought it through I think I’ll make another extinction! Start again with a better cosmic brew and a better book of fiction!
The sky was Australian blue; not the first time we kissed – that time we smashed our teeth together due to excitement – our tryst sublime.
Along the stream, we got undressed, the passions came and went – took heart. That memory is still the best, long after this time spent apart.
Shared with dVerse Meeting The Bar – not quite meeting the theme of ‘anniversary’ though this is a memory that I recall at least once a year, reminiscing on the wild emotions of discovery of new love. The form is memento (2 stanzas, 6 lines per stanza, 2 tercets (2*3 lines) per stanza, syllable count per tercet: 8,6,2; 8,6,2, rhyme scheme abc, abc)
From birth, our bodies begin rotting on the vines, Makeup masks our ruin; clothes shroud crumbling shrines, Enough seats for us, our grief, and ghostly diners, Clay dolls shaped by less intelligent designers;
Gorge while we can, is what the void inside us tells, Teeth grind charred swine, desperate to stuff hollow shells, Too lost to gauge each other’s decomposition, Doll cracked maliced lips chitchat in competition;
Starved, we crave the feast, each other’s incompleteness, Clay clings to fear’s wrinkles, exposing raw weakness, A mask slips, the vultures dive on the roadkill eats, Eyes glimmering in hope of lacerated treats;
Enraptured, we unravel, cherubic and sweet, Guilt claws our full guts, choking undigested meat, Regret gnaws sweet scraps in this hostile carcass, We lick our plates clean to disguise our darkness;
Eat away our germinating cancerous shame, The charade that glues us whole, this fresh tumoured claim, Why are we starving for each other’s misery? To spoil the scraps of goodness; call it victory;
Aroused by the rotting, vultures peck at each corpse, Prey and feed until there’s nothing left on their forks, Stacking up our stinking shells in the smoke-soaked trash, Our bellies bloated where nibbling maggots thrash.
1994ever 