Mucking about

We shuffle words around to express mundane thoughts that everybody has, in a way that nobody has expressed them before.

With pretty colors and euphemisms, comparisons and complications.

That abstraction of the mundane forcing people to think in magnificently abnormal ways.

That is the game of poetry. A game that is as sincere, as real as life and holding just as much meaning depending on who you ask.

From the serious poet who demands you interpret correctly to the jester who doesn't care what you make of their mess. Or the profiteer trying to make a buck.

Things worth remembering, I remember. If it isn't worth remembering, I don't.

I don't need a million pictures of my children as babies because 30years from now I'll still remember changing those diapers and blowing on those little cheeks like it was yesterday.

I don't need a million pictures of my Gf because her vissage is so thuroughly burned into my skull I'd recognize her in a crowd of a million people.

When my outlook is bright. The sun is setting in pillows of strawberry and cream.

And I live in a world that's endlessly trying to dig up those dead things to make a quick buck off of me. Trying desperately to tap into that nostalgia, without having any understanding of why I loved the thing in the first place.

Everytime I go to the gas pump and see Macho Man Randy Savage rise from the grave to remind me to "snap into a Slim Jim." It's makes me want to snap somebodies neck.

Every time Nintendo asks me to pay 100+ dollars for a video game that's been running on the same formula for 30 years. It makes.me want to pirate the game and save myself the disappointment of wasting a bunch of money just to play "Mario 64 with a new hat."

Or maybe I just miss the salty ocean breeze. The smell of sea weed and barnacles. Watching ships port and walking along a dark empty beach with the moonlight flickering on breaking waves. Fresh fish, cultural diversity, midnight haunts...

And damn his eyes, he's left a son

And if to us he doesn't prove frank

We'll very soon make him walk the plank.

With a big bow wow, tow row row

That he will find a watery grave

We will heave him down into some dark hole

Where the sharks'll have his body and the Devil have his soul.

With a big bow wow, tow row row

With the blasted rain falling down our necks

And not a drop of grog will he afford

For he damns our eyes with every other word.

To his poor old steward then he bawls

"Fix me a glass that will make me cough

'Cause it's better weather here than it is up aloft."

With a big bow wow, tow row row

And he looks aloft, boys, and he looks alow

And he looks alow and he looks aloft

And it's tighten up your ropes, boys, fore and aft

With a big bow wow, tow row row

And he looks aloft, boys, and he looks alow

And he looks alow and he looks aloft

And it's tighten up your ropes, boys, fore and aft

With a big bow wow, tow row row

And the wind was blowin' the devil of a gale

With the ring-tail set all about the mizzen peak

And the dolphin striker plowin' up the deep

All I want to do is roam the woods naked looking for cool bugs, playing with wood toads and identifying mushrooms.

sweet, dripping globs of light splashing at my feet, dancing through my toes, filling my mould with hard, industrial syrup.

While.somewhere up there, the mad clock laughs backward as day and night drown in the symphony

a mocking kit for all the fools that didn't seek shelter, now bloated with resin, loaded onto carts and sold to the highest bidder

whether im a man or a product makes no difference, both are suited to oil the cogs

my existence, is a snack for the machine

I do not take shelter

because there's nowhere to run

rather, I make certain that my carmel core tastes of piss, shit and vinegar

a pill not worth swallowing

I used to think about that question all the time. How people can go through life not thinking about it.

But as life went on and I grew older I realized something that most people seem to grasp on an instinctual level.

It doesn't matter, you die.

And when you die, you die alone. Nobody else is coming with you.

whether I die at peace, miserable, cowering in fear or laughing at the comedy of the game, is all up to me.

I will always choose laughter and If I can help it, a middle finger held up in defiance of somebody somewhere.

Saying fuck off to all people and their over complicated busying of life

Saying fuck off to endless march of time over my bones, my ashes, my dust

Saying fuck off to life itself, for being everything and meaning nothing