f**k them in the ear

Good evening Mister Cynical, I write this poem for you,

Sitting with your wrinkled fitful frown and scorn aknew,

Why the world is oh so bitter, and it only spins to mock us

,Combine the light of moon and stars, and sun I dare it free us,

From our tired mask, our darkened room, subscription to daily doom and gloom

,Counting pennies, keeping tabs, holding grudges, going mad,

Of altruism theres no truth and love we will not find it,

For even when it knocks our door we hate and we despise it,

Our ego eats its tea with us, at least we're not alone

,Perhaps the more we feed it, it may grow us a backbone,

I'l put mine in a basket with chewy toys and bowls of milk,

I'll treat it like a princess all dressed up in folds of silk.

Now my good man I'm here to tell you that I understand your plight,

So I'l put in words the misery of my insufferable daily life.

 

Its Morning

 

.Another day has started, wth that neighbors laugh, relentless,

I bet my little penis show woud put them off their breakfast.

And here comes mister milkman with his fat and joyful face,

if i piss into his milk bottles i'l put him in his place.

The ride to work is treacherous, the public I can smell,

With their "retro vintage" bicycles, Dam them all to hell!

I step into my office and ive barely parked my cheeks,

When my rectum coloured manager starts flailing like a freak,

As i look at this contorted clown I feel my soul despair,

They told me I was clever and I believed that life was fair,

Yet every day is drowning, hours taste of celery soup,

In every face a broken boiler, half finished novel, rotting tooth

,If they sense my dissappointmnt I swear they do their best to feed it,

With their photos and their facebook, evolution? This is bullshit!

I often wonder, even dream, of that little phase in between,

When our fins pushed us onto land, and we gasped and we grew hands.

Why the lizards all around didnt do us all a favor,And dissolve us in saliva stew, a pinch of salt and pepper.

For truly things they have not changed much beyond the fishbrain,

Where philistines they run amuck with shaven balls and no shame.

Generation spastick with the only way is essex,

No need for speech and language now that we can play with joysticks.

Where 'innit mate' replaces what we once thought almost scared,

Our treasured awkward manner, well they gagged it and they raed it,

But now i see I'm wandering on another raving rant,I digress, more entertainment, with my belligerent grey day chat.

 

Its Lunchtime.

 

Another Tescos sandwich with some cheese and onion crisps,

A high blood pressure email, now im clenching both my fists

Another ringing telephone, a fat girl on the phone,

Another hours earful, that incessant acrid tone!

An afternoon of tetris, avoiding anything like work,

Then sneaking out in utter fear they stick overtime down my throat.

Maybe if im on all fours with books upon my back,

They'll think that I'm just furniture and I'll escape like that.

 

Its hometime

 

A punctured wheel, just typical, a train ride jammed with kids,

They ought to bring back work camps to occupy those dreadful things,

Its summer time and adults slave away the shining summer days

,so dam those children all to hell, send them to work to slave as well

,I cannot decide which is worse, their yapping or their mothers,

with their pastel prams and running groups, their smiles give me the shudders,

Look at my phone, theres four missed calls, and even though its friends,

I feel the blood boil in my veins, it seems to be the trend,

there was a time where evenings meant a pizza, beers and tunes,

But now as each year passes by it seems to bring new rules,

Certain words like @rim job@, how we used them all in jest.

but now i cannot say them fear your child is not impressed.

Your aubergines, your fairtrade beans, your hovercraft cum oven,

Oak flavored wine, insurance plans, your homemade vegan muffins,

Your reading groups, your protest groups, your craft groups and your kitchens.

I beg of you, pray tell me more! Your hemorrhoids?  anal fissures?

There was a time when art was joy, the touch, the sight, the fun,

Now its corrupted with this language and your parasitic tongue

.Everyones a bloody poet, everyone can play the lute,

well heres a wee line for you, you can stick it up your jute!

I've had enough, I'm knackered, knees are creaking, I can't sleep

,I'm going to the mountains, I want to hang out with the sheep

.But my upper body strength is like that of a fish,

The wilderness is not an option, even short term is a wish

.I must accept that I am shakled, to the cogs of this machine

Thank God that theres a lottery so meagre folks can dream.

Reviews

[Ahmad Cox]

I have to admit this was pretty funny.