So: thinker, “personality” and actor
are looking for a drink.
If two of them are trailers, one’s a tractor.
“Nice counter-top. Real zinc?”
“Don’t ask them stuff. They memorise words
of better men, to spout ’em!”
“And his type feels the need to gather herds
of sycophants about ’em.”
“There’s zinc in every human enzyme. Fact.”
“An enzyme? Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
“A catalyst which helps your gut react
a thousand times a day.”
Creators are the only ones who matter,
just them and only them.
Who grows, can know: who knows can grow (and scatter):
the human apothegm.
“The path from easy living? Slow decline
to reach death valley days.”
“Misfortunes? They’re all relative, and mine
are slight. I’m not from Grays!”
Who hasn’t done his share of Boogie Nights?
All wassail hours are zeros.
Two-thirds of humankind are parasites:
where should we look for heroes?
We have a thing now, called celebrity
that’s not the same as fame:
whatever ape forsakes the tree
can make himself a name.
The world, for entertainment, craves a schism
(Max Baer against Joe Louis):
but who foresaw the Queen of Capitalism
would be a Russian Jewess?
Does your conniption fit?
If it's not a laughing matter, then it's not important.
Did you ever notice that when you stir a glass of something, the spoon says, "Jibiddy jibiddy jibiddy jibiddy"?
Worst first name of anyone I ever met: Schmedroy.
In poem or prose, if I have one ideal
that no one, in creation, had before.
I would share with the world, and not conceal
this consideration, behind closed doors.
If to me, an apothegm should creep
into or through my offset, wayward mind
on parchment this archetype, I would keep
to reassess accepted space, and time.
Ah, this dilemma I will never fight.
My every concept has been over-worn.
All missive or poems I will ever write,
have been penned twenty thousand time before.
For all our thought bright enough to glisten,
seldom fall on ears arranged to listen.
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