Poetry


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Clockwork

I am a clockwork man, and I live a clockwork life,
And I live inside a clockwork house with my clockwork wife,
Every day I drive my clockwork car to my clockwork job,
And I come home in the evening to walk the clockwork dog.
We all enjoy our dinner, and I put the kids sleep,
And they sleep soundly in their beds like ticking little machines,
My wife and I retire to bed, she sheds her dressing gown,
And we grind together like meshing gears until we've wound completely down....
Though the days seem very brief the hours seem very long,
And we hate the hand that winds us and our hatred makes us strong.

We hate the god of cogs and levers, in the clockwork heaven above
Made in anger and brass and steel, in some ever-blazing forge.
Each week I go to the church on the outskirts of our town,
Then climb the hill beside it and scream for him to strike me down,
But some mechanism trips, in part of my clockwork brain
And I meekly clamber down, and then drive home again.
I see the clockwork children playing in the fields around about
And feel such pity in my heart that the cogs must surely melt,
Our clockwork bodies betray us at each and every turn
And when we wish to leave this life they force us to return.

I hate the god of cogs and levers, in the clockwork heaven above,
Who gently orders all our lives and destroys us with his love
But the universe is bigger than I can ever know or learn,
Perhaps some greater hand winds him and he hates that in his turn.
My wife and kids lay broken, smashed on the floor of our house
Their gears and springs exposed and their pieces strewn about
I hear a ticking in my ears, I think I see some motion
In the strewn parts of their bodies and I fear their resurrection
I remember how they pleaded with me and am overcome with dread,
So I reload my clockwork rifle and I point it at my head.




To A Mouse by Robert Burns - rewritten in the style of Sylvia Plath's Daddy

You do not do, you do not do,
Any more little mouse
That has lived in my field,
For a year, or maybe two.

Your house was squashed flat,
When I plow, plow, plowed,
And now I must pray
For you, Ach Du, Ach Du.

The rolling fields of the West
And the cold winds blowing through
Are not very pure or true
So cannot help,
Or even get close to you.

Though you may steal from my barn
And break my pretty red barn in two
The best laid plans
Of me and you,
Have come to nothing now.

But you have it easy compared to me
As I can comprehend the past
And the future too.
You are pointless and brown,
And no one on the farm likes you
They are laughing and pointing at you
So mousie you bastard, I'm through.


Slightly Rhyming Verses To Whoever They Concern

Now at a bar where we used to come
In the champagne light of the evening sun,
One drink away from completely pissed
I sip a martini and, in this,
I find ingredients to help me miss
Your cocktail list of qualities.

I allow my imagination to start
With a slender and elegant cocktail glass
Then inject a crystal thrill
Of vodka, intoxicating, shrill
Mellowed by two parts vermouth
Velvet smooth though somewhat louche

And just for the pain that I'm now in
A double gill of Strychnine
Then save it 'till the very last
Ice right up to the brim of the glass.

I've someone better now instead
More good for my heart, and less bad for my head.


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