poetsbumcheeks
Well-Known Forumite
On the contrary. Its simply not enough. x
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Rather Than Twiddle Your Thumbs, Write A Poem...
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poetsbumcheeks
Well-Known Forumite
But.
If we could listen,
Without waiting to speak.
If we could talk,
Without trying to be right.
If we could smile,
Without expecting it to be returned.
If we could laugh,
At something that we didn't find funny.
If we could think,
Without feeling.
If we could feel,
Without thinking.
If we could love,
Without choosing.
If we could belong,
Without taking sides.
If we could see,
Without assuming.
If we could hear,
Without judging,
If we could remain neutral,
Without becoming indifferent,
If we could care,
Without needing to condemn.
But.
If we could listen,
Without waiting to speak.
If we could talk,
Without trying to be right.
If we could smile,
Without expecting it to be returned.
If we could laugh,
At something that we didn't find funny.
If we could think,
Without feeling.
If we could feel,
Without thinking.
If we could love,
Without choosing.
If we could belong,
Without taking sides.
If we could see,
Without assuming.
If we could hear,
Without judging,
If we could remain neutral,
Without becoming indifferent,
If we could care,
Without needing to condemn.
But.
poetsbumcheeks
Well-Known Forumite
I can't help feeling both the above are saying the same thing. Albeit in a different way. But saying that, I don't like Sprouts, so who knows.
x
x
poetsbumcheeks
Well-Known Forumite
Men’s Lifestyle
It’s most definitely Nuts,
In fact it’s Zoo.
There’s cars and football.
Because that’s what we do!
And briefly visited reviews,
With critical faculties,
Adroitly ignored.
Where Hollywood’s concerned,
It always five stars,
For the adored.
There’s the GQ,
For the more fashionable?
Few of us,
Grunting go-getters,
And the sartorially elegant,
Debonair dressers,
With money to spare,
On cockatiel hair.
And FHM for him,
Because they’re just like us,
Aren’t they? The editor and hack.
They know all about the lads,
The geezer called Jack.
The demographic,
Is well covered,
While the women are not.
If we’re not getting enough,
Than that hits the spot?
It’s Bizarre and it’s freaky,
It’s a little bit cheeky,
And if you’re short of joke,
When you’re outside for a smoke,
There’s a page for the bar,
Or pictures of men shagging goats.
It’s most definitely Nuts,
In fact it’s Zoo.
There’s cars and football.
Because that’s what we do!
And briefly visited reviews,
With critical faculties,
Adroitly ignored.
Where Hollywood’s concerned,
It always five stars,
For the adored.
There’s the GQ,
For the more fashionable?
Few of us,
Grunting go-getters,
And the sartorially elegant,
Debonair dressers,
With money to spare,
On cockatiel hair.
And FHM for him,
Because they’re just like us,
Aren’t they? The editor and hack.
They know all about the lads,
The geezer called Jack.
The demographic,
Is well covered,
While the women are not.
If we’re not getting enough,
Than that hits the spot?
It’s Bizarre and it’s freaky,
It’s a little bit cheeky,
And if you’re short of joke,
When you’re outside for a smoke,
There’s a page for the bar,
Or pictures of men shagging goats.
DaveDon'tRave
Well-Known Forumite
Ode to Bumcheeks
You smell of poo,
You smell of wee.
You talk from your ass,
For all to see.
Sometimes your ryhmes,
Have interest of a sort.
Why don't you practise more,
Its just a thought.
Or at least get it exactly right,
Before you post in broad-daylight.
I'm sure your intentions,
Are not to distress.
But some of your poems,
Read like a mess.
Perhaps they're rushed,
Or concieved in haste.
I don't know much but i do know,
You can't account for taste.
You smell of poo,
You smell of wee.
You talk from your ass,
For all to see.
Sometimes your ryhmes,
Have interest of a sort.
Why don't you practise more,
Its just a thought.
Or at least get it exactly right,
Before you post in broad-daylight.
I'm sure your intentions,
Are not to distress.
But some of your poems,
Read like a mess.
Perhaps they're rushed,
Or concieved in haste.
I don't know much but i do know,
You can't account for taste.
poetsbumcheeks
Well-Known Forumite
Thank you for you honesty Mr Rave. Much obliged. 
The Small Victory of a Bargain
Is satisfaction to all,
But the most frivolous of spenders.
Whether flush,
Or short.
The chance of a bargain,
Always ought,
To be taken.
Not forsaken,
or passed over in preference.
For more showy,
Consumer points of reference.
The bargain brings about,
A moment of sense.
In a nonsensical,
And cynical world.
The thrill of the purchase,
Is self-evident.
And non-threateningly,
Celebratory.
It seeks not to compete,
But rather unites.
In a show of solidarity,
Albeit be it briefly.
As we step out of time,
With a victorious poke in the eye;
To those who could and would,
Exploit us all.
And view the people,
As simply a market,
To mine.
The Small Victory of a Bargain
Is satisfaction to all,
But the most frivolous of spenders.
Whether flush,
Or short.
The chance of a bargain,
Always ought,
To be taken.
Not forsaken,
or passed over in preference.
For more showy,
Consumer points of reference.
The bargain brings about,
A moment of sense.
In a nonsensical,
And cynical world.
The thrill of the purchase,
Is self-evident.
And non-threateningly,
Celebratory.
It seeks not to compete,
But rather unites.
In a show of solidarity,
Albeit be it briefly.
As we step out of time,
With a victorious poke in the eye;
To those who could and would,
Exploit us all.
And view the people,
As simply a market,
To mine.
poetsbumcheeks
Well-Known Forumite
Prophet of Plastic (Pop Will Eat Itself)
Obscured from reality,
Once, twice removed.
The ideal is fact,
Inhumanly smooth.
No blemishes or scars,
Desires of mass appeal.
Reproduce the image,
The image is real.
Captured on silk-screen,
Face after face.
Pictures of perfection,
A fantasy of taste.
Known to us all,
Heroes and heroines.
Archetypes of desire,
Who adorn magazines.
Paint what you love,
They whispered to Warhol.
The city of Angels,
Hollywood so beautiful.
Making money as art,
Produced on assembly lines.
Andy ushered in the future,
He was a sign of the times.
Scathing observation,
Or homage to the pleasurable.
The homeliness of soup,
Or consumerism immeasurable.
Critics’ voices called out,
A hoax no less!
Art is more than business,
Yours has no depth.
This vision is true?
A seer has arrived.
To prophesise with intent,
The falling man from the skies.
Necessary violent death,
Makes martyrs of icons.
A car crash religion,
Worshipped by millions.
For all of the beauty,
Considered devoid of truth.
Had in its shadow,
Lust for the elixir of youth.
Mass produced fame,
Like a Coca-Cola can.
Is anyone’s to buy,
President, child or man.
Buy into a life-style,
Purchase with our eyes.
The ideal work of art,
Creates only dollar signs.
Image is everything,
And fame fantastic.
With just a glimpse we remember,
The Prophet of Plastic.
Obscured from reality,
Once, twice removed.
The ideal is fact,
Inhumanly smooth.
No blemishes or scars,
Desires of mass appeal.
Reproduce the image,
The image is real.
Captured on silk-screen,
Face after face.
Pictures of perfection,
A fantasy of taste.
Known to us all,
Heroes and heroines.
Archetypes of desire,
Who adorn magazines.
Paint what you love,
They whispered to Warhol.
The city of Angels,
Hollywood so beautiful.
Making money as art,
Produced on assembly lines.
Andy ushered in the future,
He was a sign of the times.
Scathing observation,
Or homage to the pleasurable.
The homeliness of soup,
Or consumerism immeasurable.
Critics’ voices called out,
A hoax no less!
Art is more than business,
Yours has no depth.
This vision is true?
A seer has arrived.
To prophesise with intent,
The falling man from the skies.
Necessary violent death,
Makes martyrs of icons.
A car crash religion,
Worshipped by millions.
For all of the beauty,
Considered devoid of truth.
Had in its shadow,
Lust for the elixir of youth.
Mass produced fame,
Like a Coca-Cola can.
Is anyone’s to buy,
President, child or man.
Buy into a life-style,
Purchase with our eyes.
The ideal work of art,
Creates only dollar signs.
Image is everything,
And fame fantastic.
With just a glimpse we remember,
The Prophet of Plastic.
theflamingred
Well-Known Forumite
What rhymes with Colin?
*** Masterpiece to follow ***
*** Masterpiece to follow ***
There are some real roffles in this thread
Yeah, I'm seriously lollin' over here
poetsbumcheeks
Well-Known Forumite
Glad to be of some service; at the very least the exercise of dirtybobby's abdominal muscles.
May I also, for extra laughs, refer you the 'Bus Fares' thread.
http://staffordforum.com/viewtopic.php?id=1002&p=1
A geunine hoot no less.
If you tire of that, there' s always the talking clock.
Meep!
P.B.Cheeks
May I also, for extra laughs, refer you the 'Bus Fares' thread.
http://staffordforum.com/viewtopic.php?id=1002&p=1
A geunine hoot no less.
If you tire of that, there' s always the talking clock.
Meep!
P.B.Cheeks
theflamingred
Well-Known Forumite
There is a young pig called Colin
He lives in my bottom desk drawer
Tis a problem that's not for a lollin'
For next week the desk is no more
My office is relocating
No filing space will there be
Colin, to me he does cling
So to you I am making this plea
He lives in my bottom desk drawer
Tis a problem that's not for a lollin'
For next week the desk is no more
My office is relocating
No filing space will there be
Colin, to me he does cling
So to you I am making this plea
db
#chaplife
a very moving and emotive piece.. brought a tear to my eye.. poor colin :meh:theflamingred said:There is a young pig called Colin
He lives in my bottom desk drawer
Tis a problem that's not for a lollin'
For next week the desk is no more
My office is relocating
No filing space will there be
Colin, to me he does cling
So to you I am making this plea
anomalyaos
Well-Known Forumite
MUSIC LOST ITS MEANING
MORE DRUGS OR THEY WONT WORK
MY LOVED ONES KEEP ON DYING
AND WE WALLOW IN OUR HURT
LYRICS JUST DONT MEAN THE SAME
SMOKING WEED'S NOT STOPPING THE PAIN
CLOSE SAD EYES THERES NO MORE TO GAIN
NOT AMOUNT OF LOVE CAN BRING YOU HOME
WHEN ITS GONE ITS GONE AND YOUR MORE ALONE
THUNDER AND LIGHTNING
MARK THE GRAVE
THE RAINS BEEN POURING
WE'RE TRYING TO BE BRAVE
BROKEN HEARTS SCATTERED AROUND
DYING ROSE PETALS LITTER THE GROUND
A TINY SEED THAT WE PLANT
AS WE DO OUR MOURNING DANCE
BURY THE BOX IN OUR HURT IN THE DIRT
LIFE CARRIES ON AND WE TRY TO MAKE IT WORK
BUT THE ANGEL OF DEATH WILL COME AGAIN
TAKING AND STEALING AND WHO KNOWS WHEN?
BLOOD ON THE GROUND LIKE A WORK OF ART
LOST ANOTHER PIECE OF MY PATCHWORK HEART
ive never posted anything ive written before *knees knocking* be nice
MORE DRUGS OR THEY WONT WORK
MY LOVED ONES KEEP ON DYING
AND WE WALLOW IN OUR HURT
LYRICS JUST DONT MEAN THE SAME
SMOKING WEED'S NOT STOPPING THE PAIN
CLOSE SAD EYES THERES NO MORE TO GAIN
NOT AMOUNT OF LOVE CAN BRING YOU HOME
WHEN ITS GONE ITS GONE AND YOUR MORE ALONE
THUNDER AND LIGHTNING
MARK THE GRAVE
THE RAINS BEEN POURING
WE'RE TRYING TO BE BRAVE
BROKEN HEARTS SCATTERED AROUND
DYING ROSE PETALS LITTER THE GROUND
A TINY SEED THAT WE PLANT
AS WE DO OUR MOURNING DANCE
BURY THE BOX IN OUR HURT IN THE DIRT
LIFE CARRIES ON AND WE TRY TO MAKE IT WORK
BUT THE ANGEL OF DEATH WILL COME AGAIN
TAKING AND STEALING AND WHO KNOWS WHEN?
BLOOD ON THE GROUND LIKE A WORK OF ART
LOST ANOTHER PIECE OF MY PATCHWORK HEART
ive never posted anything ive written before *knees knocking* be nice
poetsbumcheeks
Well-Known Forumite
Some 'real' poetry for the craic like;
Writing by Charles Bukowski
often it is the only
thing
between you and
impossibility.
no drink,
no woman's love,
no wealth
can
match it.
nothing can save
you
except
writing.
it keeps the walls
from
failing.
the hordes from
closing in.
it blasts the
darkness.
writing is the
ultimate
psychiatrist,
the kindliest
god of all the
gods.
writing stalks
death.
it knows no
quit.
and writing
laughs
at itself,
at pain.
it is the last
expectation,
the last
explanation.
that's
what it
is.
The Genius Of The Crowd by Charles Bukowski
there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day
and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace
those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love
beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average
but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect
like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock
their finest art
Writing by Charles Bukowski
often it is the only
thing
between you and
impossibility.
no drink,
no woman's love,
no wealth
can
match it.
nothing can save
you
except
writing.
it keeps the walls
from
failing.
the hordes from
closing in.
it blasts the
darkness.
writing is the
ultimate
psychiatrist,
the kindliest
god of all the
gods.
writing stalks
death.
it knows no
quit.
and writing
laughs
at itself,
at pain.
it is the last
expectation,
the last
explanation.
that's
what it
is.
The Genius Of The Crowd by Charles Bukowski
there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day
and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace
those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love
beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average
but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect
like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock
their finest art
poetsbumcheeks
Well-Known Forumite
One more...!
If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine
If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine
poetsbumcheeks
Well-Known Forumite
On Life Made Simple
Speak with guttural force,
And abject horror.
Like those rabid dogs,
That roam the streets,
In packs.
Bored, angry and scared,
Wanting for blood.
These at once innocent,
Malevolent,
Monotonous,
And fractious fragments,
Of transparent energy.
Displaced,
But earthy and real.
The playwright,
The deserter,
The chartered accountant,
The church-goer,
The lunatic and,
The hollowed out bodies,
Of the dead.
Forever evading,
Meandering,
And losing track.
These struggles have legs,
The rug is pulled out,
From under you.
How does it feel?
Hushed in our governing,
Of cunning greed.
Austere sanctions,
And shades,
So many shades,
Of grey.
No colours you see,
Is to live that way.
Gluttonous motives,
Tantalizingly dangled,
With uproarious fever,
Over the heads,
Of the many and the few.
Never have we minded,
What’s true or not true?
Dumb blade-edged,
Fearsome and scared,
The mob is raucous and gentle.
Full of disdain,
For the mighty and,
Authorative yet so,
Acrimonious in our collusion,
Of outward impotence.
We live together the world over,
The policeman,
The artist,
The teacher,
The homeless,
The psychologist,
And the bus conductor,
Sharing the same rainy roof.
Yet many the composed and calm,
Sanctimonious and insecure,
Façade has dropped.
In a moment and
To protect our naked,
Souls and wounded ego,
Strikes out;
You do not know!
‘You do not know’,
My convulsions of rage.
You do not know,
My palpitating heart,
Or the ecstatic state,
Of avarice obsessively,
Spun from my web,
Of life made simple.
I am free of jealousy,
Vice and shame,
Of heat or hurt,
Damp beds or fraud.
Of bondage and blisters,
Or irreverent and venomous,
Impatience demented by,
Its own concerns,
Defiantly claiming;
‘You do not know!’
My enemies or friends,
My thirst or plague.
You do not know how,
To worship my god,
You are blasphemous,
And bigoted with object subjectivity,
You exaggerate and evade,
Like a prosecutor on his stage.
Life made simple,
Implicate not!
Cease to bite your tail,
Lewd and epileptic citizen,
No-one will ever be left,
Alone or in peace.
We are morbid and malignant,
Manic and mean.
If planets are found far in the future,
With organisms and life,
Not our life but a 'lesser' equivalent,
We will administer our own,
Truth to them.
We will overstep the mark,
Once more and with,
A clinical attempt we will declare war;
“You do not know!â€
Speak with guttural force,
And abject horror.
Like those rabid dogs,
That roam the streets,
In packs.
Bored, angry and scared,
Wanting for blood.
These at once innocent,
Malevolent,
Monotonous,
And fractious fragments,
Of transparent energy.
Displaced,
But earthy and real.
The playwright,
The deserter,
The chartered accountant,
The church-goer,
The lunatic and,
The hollowed out bodies,
Of the dead.
Forever evading,
Meandering,
And losing track.
These struggles have legs,
The rug is pulled out,
From under you.
How does it feel?
Hushed in our governing,
Of cunning greed.
Austere sanctions,
And shades,
So many shades,
Of grey.
No colours you see,
Is to live that way.
Gluttonous motives,
Tantalizingly dangled,
With uproarious fever,
Over the heads,
Of the many and the few.
Never have we minded,
What’s true or not true?
Dumb blade-edged,
Fearsome and scared,
The mob is raucous and gentle.
Full of disdain,
For the mighty and,
Authorative yet so,
Acrimonious in our collusion,
Of outward impotence.
We live together the world over,
The policeman,
The artist,
The teacher,
The homeless,
The psychologist,
And the bus conductor,
Sharing the same rainy roof.
Yet many the composed and calm,
Sanctimonious and insecure,
Façade has dropped.
In a moment and
To protect our naked,
Souls and wounded ego,
Strikes out;
You do not know!
‘You do not know’,
My convulsions of rage.
You do not know,
My palpitating heart,
Or the ecstatic state,
Of avarice obsessively,
Spun from my web,
Of life made simple.
I am free of jealousy,
Vice and shame,
Of heat or hurt,
Damp beds or fraud.
Of bondage and blisters,
Or irreverent and venomous,
Impatience demented by,
Its own concerns,
Defiantly claiming;
‘You do not know!’
My enemies or friends,
My thirst or plague.
You do not know how,
To worship my god,
You are blasphemous,
And bigoted with object subjectivity,
You exaggerate and evade,
Like a prosecutor on his stage.
Life made simple,
Implicate not!
Cease to bite your tail,
Lewd and epileptic citizen,
No-one will ever be left,
Alone or in peace.
We are morbid and malignant,
Manic and mean.
If planets are found far in the future,
With organisms and life,
Not our life but a 'lesser' equivalent,
We will administer our own,
Truth to them.
We will overstep the mark,
Once more and with,
A clinical attempt we will declare war;
“You do not know!â€
poetsbumcheeks
Well-Known Forumite
What I Don’t Understand
Is why I always smile and nod;
At platitudes,
Bad attitudes,
Latent racism,
And shit jokes.
At un-informed opinions,
Based on the need to strangle,
The truth.
So we can at least just get along,
“Can’t deal with you saying that.â€
The truth,
Like a hammer on the head.
It hurts,
And makes it a little bit more difficult to be certain.
Of what?
Tell me what you’re certain of;
Family (if you have them), Friends (if you’ve got real ones) and Security (if you don’t want it now, you will)?
Can you be certain?
Nothing wrong with that.
Just a fact.
Unless you got faith.
Have you got faith?
Enough to kill yourself for your god in exchange for celestial sex in heaven for all eternity.
“Now you mention it, maybe I COULD have faithâ€.
Enough to believe that the world should change to fit your quasi-spiritual view?
Enough, enough, enough.
Doesn’t it set you free?:
To know that the powerful,
Are sometimes twisted,
And they have no concern for you,
Or any other number, statistic or target,
That you contribute to.
(Who the hell is in charge round here anyway?
Who is making up these farking rules?
Who is telling me to feel like that?)
To know that the rich, famous and un-talented can be so self-invested,
They are farking miserable and dead inside,
You can see it in their eyes.
You still want that dream,
Do you still think that’s wise?
That the class system still exists,
Based on finance and material wealth,
Rather than values or ethics.
That the working class,
If we may call it that, can be as snobby,
As the Upper (if it still exists),
And make you feel ashamed,
For the money you worked your ass off for,
So you could have two holidays a year,
And two cars outside the door.
And that middle class liberalism,
Is one of the biggest,
Downright dirty lies,
To be told.
And we dream:
About tomorrow, how you might win the big one,
The Jackpot,
The big score that’ll save you.
From what?
Work? Starvation? Nuclear war? Boredom? Angst?
OCD? ADH? Shyness? Depression? Cancer? Small Televisions?
Asthma? Small Kitchens? Old cars? Failing relationships?
Politics? Uncontrollable kids? Dying relatives?
There seems to be no right or wrong,
Except the decisions we make for each other.
At close range, in proximity, near to, attached, related, in communication, responsible to, caring of, and still.
Why do the elderly buy so many lottery tickets?
They’re nearly dead and their spouse probably already is.
Yet still they want a meal ticket.
Probably because they’re sick of sliced bread,
Margarine,
Value beans.
Coronation Street,
And the fact that no-one LISTENS.
To their inescapable LONELINESS.
Yet when the numbers don’t come up,
There are less beans than there were before.
Is why I always smile and nod;
At platitudes,
Bad attitudes,
Latent racism,
And shit jokes.
At un-informed opinions,
Based on the need to strangle,
The truth.
So we can at least just get along,
“Can’t deal with you saying that.â€
The truth,
Like a hammer on the head.
It hurts,
And makes it a little bit more difficult to be certain.
Of what?
Tell me what you’re certain of;
Family (if you have them), Friends (if you’ve got real ones) and Security (if you don’t want it now, you will)?
Can you be certain?
Nothing wrong with that.
Just a fact.
Unless you got faith.
Have you got faith?
Enough to kill yourself for your god in exchange for celestial sex in heaven for all eternity.
“Now you mention it, maybe I COULD have faithâ€.
Enough to believe that the world should change to fit your quasi-spiritual view?
Enough, enough, enough.
Doesn’t it set you free?:
To know that the powerful,
Are sometimes twisted,
And they have no concern for you,
Or any other number, statistic or target,
That you contribute to.
(Who the hell is in charge round here anyway?
Who is making up these farking rules?
Who is telling me to feel like that?)
To know that the rich, famous and un-talented can be so self-invested,
They are farking miserable and dead inside,
You can see it in their eyes.
You still want that dream,
Do you still think that’s wise?
That the class system still exists,
Based on finance and material wealth,
Rather than values or ethics.
That the working class,
If we may call it that, can be as snobby,
As the Upper (if it still exists),
And make you feel ashamed,
For the money you worked your ass off for,
So you could have two holidays a year,
And two cars outside the door.
And that middle class liberalism,
Is one of the biggest,
Downright dirty lies,
To be told.
And we dream:
About tomorrow, how you might win the big one,
The Jackpot,
The big score that’ll save you.
From what?
Work? Starvation? Nuclear war? Boredom? Angst?
OCD? ADH? Shyness? Depression? Cancer? Small Televisions?
Asthma? Small Kitchens? Old cars? Failing relationships?
Politics? Uncontrollable kids? Dying relatives?
There seems to be no right or wrong,
Except the decisions we make for each other.
At close range, in proximity, near to, attached, related, in communication, responsible to, caring of, and still.
Why do the elderly buy so many lottery tickets?
They’re nearly dead and their spouse probably already is.
Yet still they want a meal ticket.
Probably because they’re sick of sliced bread,
Margarine,
Value beans.
Coronation Street,
And the fact that no-one LISTENS.
To their inescapable LONELINESS.
Yet when the numbers don’t come up,
There are less beans than there were before.
poetsbumcheeks
Well-Known Forumite
farking hell, its a farking nice day, i must be farking going barking all these carnting works seem to have farking changed...