A medieval old monk named Fitzsimmons
did fret about nocturnal emissions,
so got help and advice
on a drainage device
from a sage group of sewer technicians.
(mostly Senryu poems)
Why do people attempt to engage?
When I'm so obviously disengaged.
Ok, tourists, when
I'm communing with my phone
please leave me alone.
I'm shopping, waiting
for the metro, I don't like
talking to strangers.
People in Paris,
think people who stop you on
the street are scammers.
I'm not here to help,
like a theme park employee.
Take your own pictures.
Your phone is equiped
With GPS, and very
exact directions.
This is my home, I'm
on my way somewhere, like school,
I have a schedule.
I'm not Mickey Mouse
or a Blues Clues character.
Jésus, go away
Are we unfriendly?
No, we're living - would you stop
a New Yorker? No.
.
.
Songs for this:
Comme ci, comme ça by ZAZ
On Halloween night, Vampira walked in
Wearing some type of tight gray skin
All heads suddenly turned
Her gazed made them burned
Into red dust their bodies turned
A vampire looked around
To see how many victims
He could find, he saw
Two necks pulsing fast
So, he planned to jump their ass
Ha, he laid-in-wait for
His delicious date
So, as they walked out the door
He quickly slammed them to the floor
The two began to change
Into something that looked real strange
The poor vampire tried to flee
Not knowing that he was the key
To setting those creatures free
Whither shall I go—
Shall I haunt the willow
Drag my nails 'cross thy dewy window
Push the wicker chair to and fro?
These are all terrors that I know
What do the newly dead do
When there is nowhere
We would venture to
Or care feel despair
Or shed boo-hoos
Should I wait in the broom
Closet for you
Radiating gloom
Waiting to shout "boo!"
What do the newly dead do?
They said it would be fun
To watch the frightened run,
But so far that just isn't true
And maybe a little mean
From the little I've seen—
But hey, I'm new;
Maybe just one of the few
Who wishes there was something better
To do
Than scare another bed-wetter
Or ruin a new hairdo—
It's just all so boring
We sit 'round till morning
Then some awful cock crows
Ringing thro' fields and clear 'cross meadows
And everything just turns black—
And it's cold
And there's a smell—
Like putrid mold.
Well,
I guess it's better than hell,
But who the hell knows
(A series of Senryu poems)
He got her number
from a friend who thought him cute
freelance matchmaking
His poems of her
sounded more like yelp reviews
—good—but not five star
His texts were a kind
of a boyfriend audition
- he got no callback
.
.
Songs for this:
SILVER APPLE EYES by Kasabian
lamb (feat. Kellin Quinn) by Julia Wolf
A love affair with fingers
May seem dumb to some
If only their brain cells would linger
The depth of the matter plumb
Fingers play sonatas and arpeggios
Hold the spoon for to eat Cheerios
They fold up into tight fists
Unfolded, help to play whist
They tap out rhythms on desks and tables
Of so many things are they able
So, why shouldn’t we love our fingers
One can even be 'given'
to lunatic left or right-wingers
The Horse
says Neigh
eats Hay
The Cow
builds mass
eats grass
The Pig
eats slop
won't stop
The Sheep
wool sleeves
eats leaves
The Chicken
his feed
is seed
The Goat
strange clan
eats can
This object resembled a phallus
was stored in a rather large chalice
kept close to her bed
it was many times said
Her boyfriend was often quite jealous
There's a shindig in town where the upper class flocks
This societal stuff Joe constantly mocks
bow tie and black shiny shoes
entry for Joe they politely refuse
If you want to come in wear more than a pair of brief jocks
Pulled a face when he swallowed a tapeworm
Made him wriggle and jiggle and squirm
down his gullet it slipped
his demeanour now flipped
He hopes it passes through in the short term
She runs in just a pair of old socks
The public so often she shocks
arrest her they said
past the coppers she sped
Couldn't catch her over ten city blocks
If I see that dog again, I fear,
with goop exuding from his ear -
if that ad again shows up,
I swear I will throw up,
but I'll never buy Ear Clear.
Y’all should know, how my words flow
And even with no rhyme, it still ain’t a crime
A poem not to have it, to rhyme, that is..
You’ll love ‘em just the same, and tho’ I have no fame
Will leave it all behind, the fame, that is..
Now, someone else step in, ‘cause I gotta give in
The break that I must take, uuuh, this song… makes me wanna shake…
------
from Ondy Not Sleepy vol 1
An old Professor of Mathematics,
Strict and immune to his students' antics -
Taught estimations - crisp and clear
Misjudged the distance of his chair
Fell down hard and needed walking sticks!
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