Crapulence

These are some crapulent poems, which at the time of writing were crap, now I've re-read them I realise that as well as being crap, they're actually very funny. Crap plus funny, equals Crapulence. In my book anyway.

Achievement

Be proud to achieve the unattainable goal:

That which people say cannot be achieved; let that push you, spur you forward, let it push you around, force you forward
Be pushed around, if you want it

I recommend striving for something which will always elude you; that four bedroom house with conservatory, just on the outskirts of Upminster
Oh la de fucking da
Or that car which has this years colour
Vomit green paintwork, pink spoilers, purple trim
Its kitsch
Oh you hate it now, but just wait until its on Top Gear.
If Clarkson tell you to love it
You’ll love it.

Insidiously, covet your bosses’ job, that way you’ll always keep them exactly where you can see them, very cloak and dagger I know but let’s face it, the abused always kick downwards.

The sword of Damocles hovers above; you in pole position for an extra 4 days annual leave, and peer pressure you can point backwards. They can make YOUR coffee.
But will they stir it with their finger
I doubt they will pay you the same courtesy.

Achieve a serene state of mind; see the system for what it really is;
An arrangement of rope’s and pulleys, in unison turning the axle, together greasing the wheels, united in oiling the cogs of the giant machine.
More meat for the Mincer.

Develop a goal,
An aim,
An ambition burning brightly against the blackest of night skies, spiralling downward touching your face with the heavens above holding you in their favourable grip on the precipice of attainment.

In this marker-less maze of lost causes and pointless direction,
My one ambition in life

Is to die.

This way I can always say I achieved something.

Hey fuck you pal,
I didn’t say this was good advice.

The Day you Gave me My
Black Notebook

I was touched by such a gesture
It was very kind of you to find the time,
To buy it for me with one condition
“Don’t write anything that doesn’t rhyme”
(Do you know how difficult that is?)

Well anyway
I wanted to say
I like my notebook
It was ok
But the minute in my hands, I knew
I would fill it just with words
For you-

I wished this book could be your face
And I could keep it in some special place
I wish the words laid here could talk
But I can’t
You’re flying to New York

I could say this leaves me devastated
Simple truths I can only articulate when intoxicated
But simple things in life are few
Like Mr Walton and BBC 2
And unquestionably difficult constructs of the English language are not things I cam capable of simplifying
And neither my love, can you

I will miss you…and I’ll underline each letter
My fingers crossed for you, for something better
Now my poetical tempo falls out of sync
Its because my brain aches and I can’t think
Could be because…

I’m running out of ink…

(The Secret Stanzas) 5:16am

I easily could have spent my life with you……………..shit
I’ve never told anyone that before
But by that same token ( I’m sorry) and blatant honesty
I would like to think you’ll have much more
Thank a cranky arsed poet of a girlfriend and wordologist whore
The insomniac who goes to bed at 4

(and then who gets up again at 5am to add two more lines for no apparent reason to a really bad poem.)

In two dimension foods you articulate
Why I’m left at 5:20am with half a bagel on my plate
Well I say tomato – you say tomato
Remember nothing says
I love you
Like a Potato

Or something or whatever.

Comments: For someone I will always miss and think of. For Jim.

"New York New York"

When you leave
Will you take nothing but a small peice of England with you?
Something Green in the palm of your hand?
To remind you: that over here a person fights for every inch of English Soil,

That you walked upon.

I wish life could be different.
I wish I could be blonde, happy to wear pink like I did once upon a time with you;
When people asked me just what was it exactly that made me wear pink?
Abandon my Black and White?
I wish I could be happy to wave you goodbye
And just
plain
'happy'
The Snowy Street Scene to our left; smashed to pieces
And life is a Weegee snapshot
Black and white
Morbid curiosity
will kill me
The traffic lights in New York will always be Red to me
The Cops will always wear White gloves
New York New York
No matter how many times I say it times two,
England is me love
New York
Is You

Comments: You can probably see a theme emerging....hang on...

For You

You say we’re friends- we never speak
Around you I’m nothing but defenceless and meek
You never thank me for what I do
You never smile when I compliment you,

You’re a Bastard.

Balls for Bile

Balls for Bile
Venom and Bile
Poetical style
For musing and browsing
And making you smile
For choosing and loosing
For lasting a while
You missed both the principle
And point

By a Mile

Vitriol Cursing
And stand up rehearsing
For inflection dissection
And Cantos traversing
For leaving convention
Embracing inflection
You missed both the journey

And onward connection

(You see I’ve got balls for bile, and I’ve got a head for weather, and if you listen really closely,

You’ll hear them clanging both together.)

Comments: I found it increasingly difficult to get published as I won’t 'tone down' or replaced the “f word” with something more 'high brow' ' but ultimately really fucking dull and insipid.
Balls, why should I? For hearts and flowers see Charlotte Bronte. For venom, bile, vitriol with a dash of smut - see me.

Altruistic

A word you use to describe yourself
I couldn’t possibly comment
But Philanthropist is my favourite word of the year
And any correlation between this word and that
Deserves a slow wet kiss on the mouth
Slow
Wet
Possibly a bite on the bottom lip
Oh shit
I can’t concentrate.
This bodes badly.

When I’m sinking in I start to stare out of the window; pencil writes nothing gets stuck between my teeth serving as a phallic reminder that the pen is mightier than the sword, oh god help me, I’m in so much trouble, rolling waves thundering along the beach foamy white waves erupting full clouds and top heavy blue skies spilling their guts into the sea
My window on the world becomes overly sexual and I have to draw the curtains and lie down with a gin and tonic lest I spontaneously combust from the thighs outward
Like the black and white picture which haunted my childhood:

An old woman
One charred leg, and one slipper

I know no-one who knows someone who spontaneously combusted
I think perhaps the old lady just suffered the agony of friction burns
My legacy to the twenty first century
Black and white pictures of burning lips, black and white words,
Like a hot dog licking a puddle
And the sea spilling over my thighs to Eine Kleine Nachtmuzik.

Tonight Tonight

I think I could be in love with you
Yes I definitely think I could fall in love...
I think I love you
I think oh what does it matter what I think?
I think...
Oh I love you
Or at least
I think I might,
Or maybe all I really need is someone to hold me tonight.

© Marjorie Razorblade 2007

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