I don’t do poetry

28 Feb

I really don’t. I wrote a load of Haiku a few years ago, but I don’t really view that as poetry. That may sound a bit bizarre, but what I mean is that Haiku, to me, is more a concise snapshot of thought/perception than what you would think of as verse. In any case, I haven’t written a poem since I was about eighteen. I don’t have anything against poetry, it’s just not my thing.

Except that this week, for some completely unknown reason, I wrote one. I’m not sure what I think about it; I doubt I’ll be making a habit of it. But here it is. I was going to call it Happy Diwali Daily Mail, but as it is I’ve called it Rhapsody on a Theme by Sylvia Plath. How’s that for pretention?

The devil makes work for idle hands

and he made no exception for you.

The curtains are drawn,

the blinds are down;

the only light is the aqua-marine

and the twinkling cities

of the world you caught in your miserly net;

the one you shrunk like the head of a pigmy

and set in orbit round the chair you never leave.

Look at them move and scurry about:

the little people,

beyond your contempt.

Omnificent you, an opinion on everything;

a Titan, a God, with an IQ of eighty.

.
You’re bored? Then a plague,

your wrath made pestilent,

will remind us how useless we are.

An earthquake in Bradford,

AIDS for the scroungers,

a tsunami that will wash only queers away.

The firstborn of immigrants,

and most violent of all:

a famine for the fallen like me –

the cloven-hoofed liberals who don’t really care,

who live and let live, psychotically.

.

Empathise, and go to hell,

six billion and more in a handcart.

It’s the war of your world, the unholy crusade,

with the losers cast out east of Croydon.

There’s a burning bush for Piers Morgan though:

get rich, stay white, be obnoxious as fuck;

for the rest it’s Gomorrah – we deserve it.

The devil makes work for idle hands,

and it’s me, I am legion, and alive

you old bastard.

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