for your useless information
i write because i cannot work
i only have one leg
and a small deformity
on my nose which makes
my nose look like it is
constantly itching
because the nerve
is shattered and i
stay in doors
and make large pots of
tea and i hide from the
public because i cry
in public and must
ask the shop assistant
for a mop for my tears
you see writing in a
selfish self-indulgent way
means any criticism
has already failed
to sit down and take
its jacket off and just
idle chat
the poems won’t stop the war or anything.
but maybe a few of you guys out there
might get a good read from them or
indulge yourself in the play of the word
fuck it!
i’m in debt up to the world.
the only jobs are in
paper factories
or logging firms
or waste disposal
my brain is half shadow
with a bruise from several
beatings.
did i mention
i only have one leg?
and that my sexual
organs as a potato mash
of man and woman?
did i mention my short
attention span?
did i mention the
stains on the white
coat?
did i mention
i do not know
what an aeolian harp is?
did i mention the
lack of education
quality in spelling
and grammar?
did i mention
the lack of
blood donours
and anemia
and social anomie?
i didn’t.
you see.
i don’t go out much.
i’m asocial and
paranoic.
i pretend to feed birds
through my window.
just for giggles.
Marx was a tycoon jew.
Hegel had OCD.
Nieztsche masturbated masturbated masturbated.
Plato had a catamite and cock and ball.
J. A. McCormack owns his own window fitting company and is a father of one.
(O, philosophers of historical OCD…
get the ruler out…
get the ruler…
straight line all the way…
to the Idea of the Idea of the Idea: Perfect!)
the useless poet
loves the poems
you hate.
because it is a
selfish indulgent
form
it’s what i need
at the time
of in-doors
and anxiety
and one legged-ness.
remember:
there are no Unicorns.
