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This is a poem to vent
All of my pent-up
Anger.
There!
It is done.

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Down the lane, I saw them march:
Her Royal Highness’ Guard!
Fly forth, tout suite, into their ranks,
Where we shall play a lovely prank
And perhaps might raise a cheerful stank
Among this stoic lot.

One two, one two!
Keep in time with fat tap shoes,
Fixed forward like their proud glares
Hidden beneath black furry crowns
That shield them from the points and jeers
Of crowd amused that I am here
To mock their glower, bark and sneer,
Shuffle feet or stomp in time,
Seven eight, eight nine!

They turn around to back again
At which point my approach must change,
And so at the top of my lungs I shout:
“What a solemn procession
For the decay of a nation!”
The crowd is not too pleased at this
And neither are the guards –
“Make way for the Queen’s Guard!”
One shouts in fury.
“Down with the Queen!”
I shout in return –
And am immediately leapt upon
By those who disagree,
Though it all be in fun, I swear,
My gut is beaten with my pleas.

What ho, what’s this?
Dost mine eyes deceive me yet?
New knights of the militia
Fight back on my behalf.
Their fluffy scraggly blackened beards
Shield them from the blows
Of fellow guards who then draw back
Once fearful scimitars show.
“Down with the Queen!”
Chokes a woman
Clutching fearfully to her bong.
“Down with the Queen!”
Coughs a man
Who gambles on the lawn.
“Down with the Queen!”
Whispers a boy
Dressed in pageant gown.
“Down with the Queen!”
Squeaks a They
Who then demands the Crown.

All around the Royal Guard
Throngs of dissidents flock
To kick and bite and voice complaint
Until the guards’ hard features faint,
Replaced with rage and violence
As war between the parties roars
And no one knows who’s right or wrong
Until the bayonets come down;
Protect themselves – Forego the crown! –
As I watch afar with upside frown.

Oh, it’s a hoot to loose the riots
Festering beneath!
You hear hearts close to bursting,
You see the grinding teeth –
But since they can’t but crackle,
Pour gas to add the boom!
Contented fools don’t read their writings
‘Til halfway past our doom.

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Confound the pungent plumbing
Of this asthenic sink!
The water trickles ticklishly,
Tittle, tittle, plip,
Plip; behold
The grime does not wash away!
I should have not
Dried ribs today.
This man near me
I would sympathize, his washing for
Five minutes, were his faucet only
Half as feeble as mine.

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One Two Three
Four Five Six
I’m getting tired sick of this!
Before a single week has passed
Cobwebs have half-filled my glass
Since mugs are my collecting fix
I own close to five plus three and six
Mugs pile the best collector’s heap
For being practical, pretty and cheap –
But damn these fool eight-legged bugs
For building their homes inside of my mugs!
I cannot drink coffee at the breakneck pace
Required to beat their weave-binding race.
So! I have decided to limit the use
Of my mugs for collection and arachnid abuse;
From now on I drink coffee from Styrofoam
That abandons my mugs to cobwebbish loam.

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Here I sit upon a bench,
Musing in retrospect
As the clock ticks by, the full moon high,
A lamppost Space erects.
My patience withers away
As I wait long for the shuttle
To taketh away beyond break of day,
Exempting all bitter rebuttals.

Every bus stopping in turn
Rejects my ticket, null and void,
But I am certain, behind closed curtain,
The world chuckles at my being toyed.
For, as it turns, it turns forth time,
Turning man to turn in turn –
Yet the faster the spin, the sharper the wind
And the hotter its friction will burn.

But I stand alone on this layer of space,
Watching infernos onward spread
As every tear escaping down laments the many crowns
That tilt ‘til they tumble from head.
I lie silently in this manner
As they meander on by, single-file,
My despair distributed amongst them,
Solemn procession stretched for miles.

Days upon days, weeks upon weeks,
Travelers stumble through bus doors.
Left out in the dark, my exclusion unbearably stark
That my very essence is abhorred.
Hither a bus rolls up without warning,
A young lady in charge at the wheel –
She beckons with kind understanding,
Her smile a thirst-quenching reel.

I rise to meet and to greet her.
She takes my ticket in hand
And shreds it with faltering gesture
Despite what had always been planned.
She scoots just a tiny bit over
So in her I’d know I’ll confide –
I sat down with her, shoulder to shoulder,
And we both took in silence the ride.

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I can sleep
In a ball on a train
In a box in the rain
In a chain on the street
In a field on a sheet
On the deck of a ship
Beneath a sink with a drip
Inside a coffin underground
Within a cage in the pound
Tied to ninety-nine balloons
Amidst a flock of quacking loons
Dragged behind a bouncy boat
Strapped to the horns of an angry goat
Driven through with twenty knives
Infected with a hundred hives
Swallowed by a humpback whale
Beaten by softball-sized hail
Stretched across electric fence
While my gut gets gaping dents
As brass-knuckled blows never stop
With my mouth stuffed o’er a filthy mop
On my ass or on my head
Looking awake or stone-cold dead
I can sleep almost anywhere, you see,
Under any circumstance, inadvertently –
For the secret to passing out on a dime
Is to always be sleepy, all of the time.

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Empty tax-free envelope
Coloring page of Jesus Christ
Pamphlet from a cancer walk
Plumb nickel
“Vogue” magazine subscription
Paper piglet mask
£100 cash, in Monopoly Land
Copy of Richard Dawkins
Half-used packet of rubbers
Newspaper clipping of clock
Dirty napkin, soiled with coffee
Another, soiled with rum
Tampon wrapped up in a bow
London Map, soggy on the left corner
Twopence.

Holy Communion might be bare,
Few souls for Eucharist –
But though St. Paul’s lacks daily fare,
Donations give much less.

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Today I wasted
My day away.
I read a book
Of higher thought,
Watched a movie
Of social critique,
Lost a game
Of Shogi, to myself,
Sketched a sketch
For my novels,
Listened to music
Composed by Tchaikovsky,
Wrote this poem
In the coffee line –
These things I do are not a waste
Of time as I seem to say,
But might have just been better off
Postponed to a different day…
In truth, much was accomplished
And much I’ve put behind me,
But tomorrow’s test has earned my night
Since all day I neglected study.

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Verily, this sonnet be a moron
That cannot think twice upon its head
Since ev’ry bit o’ sense within it, gone!
All poetic tastes, stone dead.
Readily I degrade this sonnet
For saying nothing worthwhile in the least;
Beneath pretty wordy bonnet
Hast driven purpose simply ceased?
Truly, I wish for greater drive
Behind this pathetic cluster of lines,
So my insults are meant to force it shrive –
To confess shortcomings, accept the fines.
Yet, perhaps these failings from the start
Are due to some small failure on my part?

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Thank you for buying this here book
Of beloved poetry
Which I sold for the cheap price
Of seven dollars fifty
Because this is the kind of work
That places bread on table
Since the public’s less demanding
Than Hollywood’s unstable.
And so I thank you once again
For your patronage,
Especially since a poem’s easier
Than a screenplay ever was.

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