Wednesday, 8 April 2009

Day Eight

* I'm going to stick to just the one poem today despite the day being as fruitful as a really big garden. That way if tomorrow is dead and all I get are the stinking results of a day of eating way to many apples I can just cheat and whack an older one up. Yep.

Some of us smoked so much skunk
that our brains ended up resembling
a ravaged bowl once full of delicious dessert.

Others lay around in gardens
flowery as Whitman’s verse, discussing
the irony of the word ‘grandiloquence’.

Some debated whether or not a beard
is a nest for intellectual growth or a mask.

We’d write the names of days on blue Rizla
and lie on the thrones of our backs as we smoked them away.
But if one thing bleeds into the next too much
all that blood is bound to lead to disease.

We once had someone draw a picture of us all
sat around like stuffed animals, grinning
about nothing because nothing means more than a grin.

I’ve lost my copy now; but I still own
the poems we translated into other languages
on unreliable, meaning-mangling websites.
They’re filed in a box I buried called ‘Nostalgia’.

We passed the time despite the fact
we shuffled so slow, and left it dejected
like a puppy banished simply for growing up.

At night sometimes when the neighbours’ dog barks
I jolt from sleep in the saddest terror ever.

No comments:

Post a Comment