Here I am again,
in Giffnockery!
out back,
smoking a moronic snout,
young as the mooncalf,
brain as empty as a parked car,
glazed over, touch giddy in the
head wise.
no Einstein here
no equations,
just gormless
goggle-eyed.
I blow smoke
through
the dream catcher,
little bars knock
against each other
tingle and chime,
but I don’t
dream.
the rain drizzles
under grey cloud,
always grey,
always the thickest dullest,
brooding grey…
‘boy, you’re confused, aren’t you.’
the old man next door tells me.
‘The square root of 185,
confounds me so,
and I have difficulty
thinking in a straight line,
and putting things in to order,
I’m confused,
like a doorbell in a house
owned by deaf inhabitants…’
‘So, what’s going to stop the War…’?
He asks.
‘Going to bed…but it never lasts…’
‘Going to bed will stop the war…
you’re crazy boy…’
‘Sure…people can’t sleep easy…
that’s the trouble right there…
from the wooden cradle to the
wooden coffin…no easy sleep…
so comes unrest…it’s all in the idleness,
slack breezy…solver of worlds…idle man’
He walks off, none the wiser,
I am Olaf The Left-Handed Gibber,
I am none the wiser
a non-entity of suburb,
living among non-entities.
crashing out heads against the soft sun,
banging our heads against a cushioned wall,
arguing petty squabbles, ranting now and then
red faced furious…harmless, always
your powerlessness restablishes itself.
cry for the woman who must rush
to get her weekly shopping
and then dies in a car accident…
cry for the cat without milk
cry for the bubbling flesh of bomb victims
cry for the postman, cry for the The Sun,
cry for the grazed kness on play grounds of
industry, cry for the whackybacky cloud heads
school bosy, cry for the insane wobbly brained angry jitterers,
cry for the lost battalions of slack and breezy encouragers!
cry for the apple core of the third world
cry for the coat hanger thin populations
cry for the million chocolate drops
that melt in the sun
cry for the starving and homeless
skeletons of nowhere.
cry for the embrassed millions
of plain clothed human beings,
who suffer very little by way of hardship.
cry for the powerless
indiviudals, who run like
girls, men who
whimp out in the heat
of intimidation.
men who are walked
all over by stronger men,
by stronger women,
men who are balls of lint,
in the paw of a lioness.
cry for the over spill of personal
life from the anxiety of home
ridden women with rectangular brains
and cry for the martyrs of office employment,
and reptitive slow suicides.
cry for the unemployed wolfpacks of
uninspired choruses.
cry for the stabs wounds
that open like mouth,
and blood pours
as from a paint bucket.
cry for the frigid beds
of fully clothed
polite hilters.
weep
for the mop
in a supermarket
aisle.
cry for the alcoholic
mother who burps in the
queue and drops her change,
the alcoholic grandfather
who drives his BMW
wired to the moon.
weep, for the whole world thing,
the whole unprovable thing of being,
the whole apprentness of it all.
when will everybody sit down
and pull themselves together.
stop tripping up.
contradict
their convictions.
let everything pass as it passes,
touch what you need to have,
and what needs to touch you,
but nothing more…
Here I am, listen to me,
(listen to yourself, haha)
feeling all Jesus…for the people…
for the life thing,
the sheer mutiplication of
us all, life continually,
cruel as kind
going on,
despite what is,
fuckers! here we are.