Masses, this is what you have been waiting for!
Here it is, the latest music video by Bucket Man. Move over Psy, here is the dancing communist super man …
Joe Chip sings: “I can dream about fish…”
What more could you ask for? (art? good taste? high production values? phht)
all I like,
I can dream about FISH
all I like,
The bastard’s can’t stop me now
I’m dreamin’ ’bout fish right now,
I can dream about FISH
all I like.
Thank you Bucket man.
There’s all ladies now
whose legs are made of rubber
Now I’m respectful of women
(even I had a mother)
But I need to know
are they rubber all through
or like Astroboy
are their legs a hollow tube?
I can’t wear those pants
they’d look silly on me,
so I’m the only one not walking round
pneumatically.
Rubber legged ladies
bouncing round glorious
Soon they’ll be running
like Oscar Pistorius.
***
I don’t think those pants are really rubber, but I’m not going to touch them to find out, thats how trouble starts. Joe Chip, always with the big issues.
Hey ugly fat old man
what do you think you are doing
just standing there staring at me like that
with your face covered in shaving cream?
What happened to that young guy
you people used to have
on the other side of the mirror?
Did he get bored hanging around?
Went looking for somewhere more interesting
to hang out?
You may as well stick around,
I suppose.
I hate to think who they might send
to replace you,
if you were to go.
You’ve got his nose, you know.
You two related?
How come you got so many ugly people
over there?
***
Pathetique. Its less pathetic, when its in French.
If I was ten years younger
I might make a fool of myself
so I am glad that I am not.
I smile
and suck it in.
Why would I think
things would be any different
to how they were
ten years ago?
If I was ten years younger.
Except, like, for facebook and stuff.
***
I found a shoe
by the side of the road
There was no foot in it.
Not this time.
***
Tell me.
What I want to know,
is where
do the dead women go?
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.)
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.
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?)
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.
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.
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.
Poetry and Paranoia 