Details |
Matthew Murdoch Poem
I hate the spectacle that makes a man of beast.
How can money make such a beast of man!
A bear in a tutu dancing for youyou,
balancing on a ball, riding a bicycle for a biscuit,
and [I imagine] bearing the whip, caged
by drunken clowns with their pants down,
and a man in a top hat twiddling his mustache
belongs in the woods.
It’s the twenty-first century: clowns are sad and the top hat is out.
Copyright © Matthew Murdoch | Year Posted 2010
|
Details |
Matthew Murdoch Poem
She has left my bedroom lately. Lately?
It was long ago. She has taken my guitar with her.
But history has slipped out of memory.
I am not prepared for a reckoning.
Is it a time for uninterrupted grief.
This no bitter recompense for no fault done.
The Tigers beat the Angles 4 to 1.
***A song for Lulu
Copyright © Matthew Murdoch | Year Posted 2010
|
Details |
Matthew Murdoch Poem
It’s perplexing to consider there is anything
and unfathomable to imagine there is nothing
Copyright © Matthew Murdoch | Year Posted 2010
|
Details |
Matthew Murdoch Poem
I’m no poet—not clever enough,
attentive enough, too much going on,
can’t focus in, don’t understand about line breaks,
can’t think about these things too long,
read too much prose, speak too plainly,
no vocabulary, too much appreciation to give it a go,
too much respect to dip in my toe,
too cutesy when forcing the rhyme as above,
then feeling I must go on and talk about love,
more likely to end up with a pop song
than anything nice, prone to homage, prone more
to steal,
can’t say really anything ‘cept how I
feel
(which is usually the lyric of a pop song),
inclined to media, disinclined to wisdom,
more likely to Wikipedia Derek Walcott than read him,
head hurting too much, a head full of tired,
uninspired. "You’re fired!"
Copyright © Matthew Murdoch | Year Posted 2010
|