Tag Archives: social

Social poem 1

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They’re all gone now.
Swallowed down by windy pipes gone by…
Some hairy brushes sinking low below
Those every seconds left untouched.
Where’s time now mum?
Where is it m’am?

So fond of words, so fond…

Label me life; label me as you would label toes…
Dead, cold, as the reminder of an unpaid day to mourn.

See me; sea’n me…
Fortunate as the disaster happening across the street of someone else’s feelings.

When I will swap the day with night’s attire,
And messages will rot in bottled sand;
My love for maximums should set a fire
Even to Scaevola’s one, unburnt hand.

“De Profondis” seems so shallow now
When mankind’s only hope is Ridley Scott’s
Imagination gone to save us please from evil…

Ta ra ra Bum ta ra, ta ra ra Bum ta ra…
‘at’s it milord, ‘at’s it…
Lift ’em skirts to blow’n the wind of Dylan’s fights
with Don Quixote’s every windmill…
Have you seen ’em ma’?
All those how many roads I’ve traveled all to find you…
and all’s alone
so welcome to the great ol’ party of deliverers,
all welcome…
scum.

Have you ever dreamed of flying tied onto a dropping bomb
of sorrows and delusions
never to reach earth
forever falling like pink floyd’s massacre of every folly?
No?
Try this you m**** f*****,
try flying fond of all those every coming days when eyes
are open yet to see another mirror’s scoff:
“You dirty little f****** bastard, you ain’t no wings
you hear me!
You ain’t no wings and ain’t no wings to grow you out of ’em
for(n)ever! Do you hear me?”

“Mother should I run for president?”

I know why I love English: it is the only world where I is never little,
nor ‘t is belittled by and by, by every Little…

Allow me to exist until I don’t deserve to suffer anymore for
who the f***’s sake…
me and my children born to my shame’s utter follow…
arriving every time precisely at the six o’clock’s
of every three and nine’s barking of disgust
for we don’t, you don’t, they don’t
Have.
But daddy, isn’t it there?
And you work!?
It’s true my love but see you, they just suck…

And as a matter of fact,
I remember being told that grand-grandpa left his all
with all his all
never to return
because some Arian f***** rode into his town upon a white horse
and he ain’t really fond of any chopped dick’s spawn…
So grand-grandma went nuts, and auntie was joking
in the camp when someone farted under the common lousy blanket:
“Keep it in, it’s central heating!”
F****** funny that is, f****** funny…
And grandma never gave us yellow lentil soup,
but only mixed with tears…
bloody tears:
“don’t make me cook this love, we ain’t got any other food for years….”

And mum…
She was born where I wouldn’t have allowed here to be,
but no one asked me:
boy I’m getting funny, ain’t I?
It was the end of April First of May you know and war…
Auntie just weaned of the same dry breast to barely need a bra
or any other something like that…
and the f****** Christmas came:
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum wie grün sind deine Blätter…
Wrong side of history grandma…
grandpa left you desolate for another piece of non-kosher pussy…
and only thin baked beans under the tree.

And mum got dad and they got me and bro…

Crazy years they were, I swear to Jodie Foster’s Contact!
Beautiful years of it’ll get better by the day and never…

“I wanna know what love is…”

Isn’t there anything more than just ever-festering regrets of
this is not the f****** train I hoped to have had hopped on…
And this is not the bloody f****** life I’ve spawned my offsprings for…
Because they haven’t signed up for it either…

“Mother do you think they’ll drop the bomb…”

It’s raining.
I guess it’s just the slowly running water from above
Pouring down
To drown
Everyone.

Heaven’s not empty.
It’s just that no one’s there anymore;
but all those molecules of water,
following a never-ending plan
of a never to be found hourglass master
who returns only to turn his sinister
water filled, strangled test tube.

Don’t worry folks,
if you’ve escaped this time,
you’ll drown anyway
at Heaven’s turn…

Social Poem 3

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“Does anybody here remember Vera Lynn?”

No one out there to remember,
no one to reply.
Innocence is past, with
no one to imagine what is was…
Legions of faded poppies
marching quietly over ashes
of once resurrected hopes;

When I was younger
I remember dreaming about being older;
now that I’m older
I don’t dare dreaming anymore.
Only at noons, early afternoons,
maybe evenings I dream,
long, nearly frozen
worm holes leading into another Oz,
where guitar strings are still used over
stretched swan necks in an absolutely
harmlessly musical manner,
and over microscopic black holes
too small to swallow any sound…

If I’d have to choose between
Jesus and Buddha,
I’ll have my granny,
because she always added to her
not even written down love
sweet plum dumplings with cinnamon,
and bought me a guitar out of her pension
against my dad’s will who said he’ll
smash it to my head,
and ice cream and custard cream
and suffered me drain half her coffee with
a dozen sugar cubes…

She died before finishing to fry
my life’s pile of pancakes,
so here I am, maple syrup
golden syrup, cinnamon,
brown sugar and all…
Still waiting,
immature grown-up with nowhere to go,
just realising Oz is not even a place,

just another granny’s absence where

Dorothy is barefoot,
frying lion steaks
in tin pans
over straw fires…

Social Poem 2

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Why is it that every bit of a stone raised to hit with,
arrives precisely at nearly every moment
of each day,
straight away,
against my very, every tooth
left unsmashed by previous,
attempts
to secure ’em a well deserved p(a)lace
in the newly appointed
Paradise for Handheld Teeth Smashing Stones.

In that very Paradise, a self appointed,
self revolving social arm,
penetrates back and forth,
back and forth and again, through thin layers of width,
(like grandma’s wooden spoon getting in and out
water’s boiling skin,
gently moving-removing eggs)
granting stones and hands
never-ending crimson ribbon padded mass graves:
Lourdeses for each and every barren
gum hole…
There chlorine is being added by the same
self revolving social spinster
Just to ensure gum disease are kept
at (pirate) bay…

Then at midnight,
all this bleached parade joins
the endless ranks of
desperate housewives scourging
through leftover papers
for whatever coupons
of love…

“Are you dead yet? Asked a frightened angel
sent to make sure no devil would dare unplug
my:
Heart (Jarvik)
Lung (the other’s out…)
Brain(s)
Urinal drains (kidneys sold to buy the Jarvik…)
also to make sure my colostomy bag
will never be emptied
of life’s all dues…
Because that would be a sacrilege
against the sanctity of (f)lies…
————————————-
And the devil presented (him/her)self before God and said:
“Do you see your job?”

And God said:
“No.”