Saturday, 23 July 2011

The Rice-paper Paper

It is regurgitated,
And frankly not that good.
I was spitting bile like that
Ten-years back,
And the only thing I have read
Is my horoscope.
So take your harrowing tales,
And your misguided hopes,
Sit them next to those dreams of grandeur,
And label the whole mess;
'Obviously not working'.
Your painting by numbers words
Have, 'Made in China'
Written all over them,
And even though
Your definitely not a sheep,
All you do is bleat like one,
But I'm hanging up my crook;
These fells are full
With those dress-up wolves
And part-time foxes,
Trying to pull the wool.
Take your desperation sweat,
And drink it down,
Let the salt dry to your lips
Because no love can grow there:
Dead words full of dead lies,
Those pot-and-pan rabbit eyes.
I gasp in awe long before,
I bother asking why.
Why do you try,
Trying so hard
Like four left feet on a dance-floor;
I'm sorry,
But there is no lute for you;
And the sheep baa'd
For this theatre leaflet bard.
So what can you do?
Is there more homoeopathic poison,
Any more sequela of lust;
No matter what, time keeps ticking
But for you,
Its life or bust.

I hope after all you did know,
Your facing the wrong way though!

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