Dexter

Dexter

You married your sister

No wonder it ended in divorce

Dexter

You murdered your brother

and never showed any remorse.

You used to be a gay undertaker,

now you are a dead body maker.

Michael C

what next will you do?

Named for a passage way

because you’re just passing through

the characters you inhabit.

Stay away from Richard Kelly,

he’ll make you play a psycho rabbit.

Dexter,

You talk to your dead father.

I hadn’t thought about how weird your show is until just now.

***

“This drivel shows nothing but contempt for the reader.  Why are you taking this class if you are going to submit such rubbish?  This is not even a first draft.  You think the conceit of confusing the actor and the character is amusing, but its tired, and your attempt is half arsed.  The ending would be a let down, if there was anything to come down from.  And what’s with the Donnie Darko crap suddenly popping up?  Worthless, both you and the so-called poem.”

Sorry Mum.  I know, she wasn’t his real sister any way.  But Harry is supposed to be his real father.

Albino Girl

I thought she was albino

’til I saw that her eyes were blue

I was gonna keep on going

just walk on through

you might think that was kind of rude

but she looked like she had bad attitude

***

Cute girl with the see through skin

I thought that she was

Albinan-ian

Cute girl with the veins that show through

What has nature done to you?

***

She replied:

Nature didn’t do this

It began with the

wrong boy’s kiss

Disease over which

love holds sway

Bad boy sucked all my colour away

***

Cute girl with the see through skin

I thought that she was

Albinan-ian

Cute girl with the veins that show through

What has that bad boy done to you?

***

I thought she was albino

’til I saw that her eyes were blue

She kept on going

just walked on through

you might think that was kind of rude

She repaid me for my bad attitude

***

Cute girl with the see through skin

I thought that she was

Albinan-ian

Cute girl with organs that show through

How can I ever forget you?

***

***

Gentle readers, you should hear me when I sing this.  Perhaps it is better that you don’t.  And yes, I am fully aware that while an albino person may come from Albania, that that is mere coincidence.  Remember, I have been issued with a poetic licence.  Perhaps a commentary on a certain type of singer, perhaps just stupidity.  Perhaps a cautionary tale for Twilight readers?  Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.  (And as I type this on a fine winter’s afternoon, I am rewarded for writing about colour with the eerie wail of a yellow tailed black cockatoo.)

The Polygamist’s Lament

Will you be my third wife,

and save me from the lonely life

that only a husband

of two wives

can know?

Three

is the loneliest number

its one too many

to rhumba

My sister wives

spend all their time

together

I wander lonely as a raincloud

in a spate of good weather

I don’t want to be a heel

but I can’t live as the third wheel

unless there is a fourth

I’ll have to consider divorce

so please save me from taking

that unnatural course.

I am glad they get on

so well

those two

But what the hell

do they get up to

all the time

leaving me to attempt

to lament

in rhyme?

It was really big of me

to consider polygamy

it flatters a girl to think

she might be number three

but it just cannot be:

It isn’t me

It isn’t you

its just

I don’t like the other two.

Fair enough.

Do you have a sister?

……….

Who says true art takes time?  Its like true love – it just pops out.  “A spate of good weather” – William McGonagall, eat your dead heart out.

Jehovah’s Witnesses

Having been inspired to great artistic heights by Mormons and Scientologists, I was going to pick on Jehovah’s Witnesses next.  In my old house they used to visit me and resist my attempts to convert them to something else on a regular basis.  I have been in my new house a year and they have not visited at all.  I suspect this is because there is a big hill you have to climb up to get to me (yes, cos I spend my time meditating on top of a mountain), and the local Witnesses round here might be a bit lazy.  So my poem was going to have lines like

Hey Jehovah

why don’t your witnesses like to climb over

the hill and visit any more

I never seem them

they don’t call

they don’t tuck the WatchTower

under my door

And then there was going to be something about how I hope that he is a vengeful god, because his Witnesses were ignoring me.

Then I came home the other day and the alleged Mrs Chip, if there should be such a person (I don’t think there is for this persona), had placed The Watch Tower and Awake on my desk.  Bugger!  They had been!  That spoiled everything.  Curses!  Foiled again!  I am struck into appropriate politeness, and it is for the best.

I like the monster Jehovah’s Witness in Ghost Story by Peter Straub.  The bit about Dr Rabbitfoot.  He was scary.

I hope none of this sounds rude, I have to write about something.  (Or do I?)

You may be interested in a review of “Sad Jingo”, a novel by Ron Dionne, another Blogger at WordPress.

I AM YOUR MATE JOE CHIP

We know why the children who read Harry Potter identify with the main wizard.  Wouldn’t it be wonderful if there was magic in the world?  And if there was, of course I would be one of the magicians.  Even if I couldn’t be Harry (though secretly, why wouldn’t I be?  why shouldn’t I be?) I wouldn’t be a muggle.  Once upon a time, I could watch zombie films and apocalypses until the mutant cows came home (1).  Omega Man, Mad Max 2, The Terminator, Afternoon Tea of the Dead, and always, I’d be identifying with those swift survivors, the ones who scurry just ahead of the blood thirsty hordes.

But what is the truth?  Almost to a one, even if there was a secret world, the millions of children reading HP would have no access to it.  They would be ordinary.  Just like they are now.  At best, at the…

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Loving the alien

Sniff of chlorophyl

whiff of ether

Look down

see fronds part and unfurl

cupping

leafy embrace

cool breeze

tugs you in

sinking the green

moss is velvet

plant yourself

lean in and

skin unfurls to mask you

the perfect kiss

inside out

you are draped

try to make sense

of distant calls

lose yourself in

the wind blowing

through her branches

are you dead

or are you

loving the alien?

***

Earth girls:

don’t care that they’re skinny

don’t care if they are fat

bothered always now

that they’re

meat

***

lost on venus

lost on mars

press up against

foreign atmosphere

do you lose yourself

if you love the alien?

***

RIP Ray Bradbury

new sneakers hitting the pavement

forever now

I hate you radiator

I hate
the way you radiate
energy and power
how you excrete
heat
and make weird noises
on the hour.
Your functionality
does not excuse
your lack of personality.
You are not everything to me
when that is what I demand
of everything.
You do not radiate love, radiator,
nor compassion or understanding.
So like a man
to think you can get away with fulfilling one mission.
I don’t want you to fix everything.
I want you to listen.

***

Disclaimer:  neither I nor the writer are female.  I just have to get that out there.  You can blame all of this on Scott.

The day I failed my personality test

You wanna test

my personality,

You say you’ll make a

man of me,

Wanna check the level of

Dianetic technology

required to set

me free

from the engrams that

bedevil me.

I’m very sorry,

Mr Scientology

in the words of Boy George

I’d much prefer a cup of tea.

***

Ahhh, Irish breakfast.  The writer once had a personality test.  It turned out he didn’t have one.  The scientologists had to throw him back, and off he swam, along the stream of rushing humanity along Castlereagh Street, still unable to fathom what made him different, as in his mind he added up the numbers on the registration plates of the cars he passed.  On cold nights he aches, and he thinks he may still have the hook embedded in his cheek.

 

The man of her dreams

Sinking

she rose,

spluttering,

a gem in her hand,

a moment from time

usually lost.

Truth snatched

from the reverie,

just before sleep.

As she slipped off

after a day of infinite choices,

selections, ticking boxes,

it came to her:

she liked her men

strong,

sensitive,

soft,

embossed.

Just like her toilet paper.

Armed with knowledge, now she can rest.

Internet, you are full of shit

Are you having fun

on the internet?

Interacting with dozens

you’ve never met.

Without it,

how many obscure

bookshops would you

have had to endure

to discover the secret link

between the Rothschilds

and your local skating rink?

The masonic conspiracy

to exploit someone else’s

gullibility?

The zionist bolshevik combine

that is behind the plan to mine

your backyard?

No Jews went to work that day,

its hardly surprising,

as well as eating babies,

they excel at organising.

Bin laden made his fortune

forging certificates of birth,

Obama is controlled by communists

from the centre of the earth.

Eternal salvation

requires correct pronunciation

of each of the names of God.

Old mother Hubbard

found body thetans in the cupboard.

The Reverend Moon,

he’s still calling the tune,

the hip beat

of zombies selling flowers in the street.

Internet,

you are Brown, Dan; you are Erich von Daniken.

you are the Magicians of Dawn, you are Linda Goodman’s sun signs,

you are Shirley Maclaine, you are Carlos Castaneda,

you are T Lobsang Rampa,

the Joy of Sex,

Sven Hassell, Findhorn, The passport to Mangonia.

You win us friends and influence people.

you are both Tom Grattan’s and Tom Brown’s school days.

The Spear of Destiny and Edgar Cayce,

The Long Banana Peel and the spaceships of Ezekiel.

Internet

you are Corgi Books, spread infinitely thin

bringing us all together,

helping crypto fascists and high school drop out gnostics

find each other,

when they never would have before.

I didn’t say its a good thing.