Wednesday, September 17, 2008

How when where and why. 2000

Hail Harper,

Hast thou been
fairly occupied?
Hast thou had
dreams that
Hast thou been
drinking alcohol?
Has thou been
Having a ball?
Of ugly pomes
This sure is one
And now I'm
That it is done.

1. What keeps you so
miraculously far yet near
But not close enough
To buy me a beer
How have your countrymen
In entertaining Indian
2. Today I strangely submit
To the letter writing fit
Going for a wordly walk
In this manner
I shall talk.
3. It's cold and wintry
But how would you know
With your barbaric
I feel quite fine in this
empty room
with a smiling boy
and a heater.

4. As it happens I'm at work
Yet I let the danger lurk
The danger of distraction
And that is not a fraction
Of all that makes me wrong
To compose a song
for this educational pit
I must compose a hit
I'm a racehorse, so he said
If I don't win I'm dead
How can you live with such pressure
I'm no M.C Escher
Can you grant me a light
That will ensure my sight
There must be a way
To brighten up this day
So I thought I'd write
And scribble on the white
And along the way I might find
Some precious peace of mind.


III 17-2-2000

I continue to compose
Though not with virtue of prose
As you can see, my pen
Has changed the font by ten
A different writing altogether
Though I can't decide whether
It all makes any sense.

Today I shall complain
Of new agonies and pain
Of running several laps
on the face of this map
To try to get things moving
Its not unto my doing
The horror of redtape
Often makes me gape
the bureaucratic ladder
Is getting worse to badder
At every step I take
For diplomatic sake
I'm thwarted by people
who should walk off a steeple
Instead they only mumble
And continue to grumble
For God's sake I want to shoot
And I don't care 2 hoots
For your smelly tales
Of how to make things fail.

All I've done this morn
Is walk up and down
Substitute for a phone
and their lazy bones.
They smile with assurance
That's beyond my endurance.
They frown and crib in tones
Inbetween farts and groans
A rotting pack of lizards
And retired wizards.

My creativity crawls
Amidst these walls
Why else is it so hard
To write ballads
Like a bard.
I shut myself in 323
My only manner to be free
And sit here to pluck
The pansies from the muck
Occassionally I strum
the acoustic drums
And bolero resounds
In here and around
They must think I'm strange
To live within their range.
And arrogantly stride
with aesthetic pride
what thoughts that they might stew
Into a spicy brew
I cannot be certain
For their eyes look dead
And pinned into their heads
Leaving no clues or trace
Of an honest face.

Wonder how it will go
How will the future flow
I cannot wait to see
What will become of me
In the coming weeks
Some powers I will seek
To over come this place
And discover my own space.
To which I can belong
And sing it like a song.

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