Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

Imagine if I could feed the world … with SONG!

That almost is a song.

My voice filling the airways, filling stomachs – when usually, it does the opposite: see

Check out the dying days of the Joe Chip Empire here

Hair don’t taste like chicken,

except for chicken hair, which is very rare,

because chickens grow feathers most everywhere.

.

Useless reptilian descendants,

scratching round, pecking the ground,

you’re just the dinosaur’s genetic burial mound.

.

Pointless hairless, flightless birds,

can’t feed your children with lactation,

have you absolutely no mammalian aspiration?

.

Eek eek.

Baby.

Joe Chip, you are such a child, you hide your feelings by joking about them, you cannot even write the word “LOVE” – there, was that so hard?  Now, I want you to really chow down, there, get stuck into it, a great big plate of love.  There is going to be a lot of work in this taste test, Joe.  You have to work your way through a kilometre (1) of chocolate before you even get to the cardboard of pulped cards.  There are so many layers to this planet.  I know no human should have to eat roses, but Joe, it is for science, you cannot let a few mouthfuls of thorns get in your way.  Stuffed animals and inedible poem after inedible poem.  I know Joe, I feel your pain.  Here is a hard bit – you are going to fall a great distance through a void.  Your guts are going to flip, they will flop, your hormones will go astray, yes, even though you are a boy.  It won’t seem empty for a while, there are giga-years of trite and awful songs to accompany you, the god-awful soundtrack to your descent (2).

Are you in the darkness Joe?  Do you feel the pressure of the vacuum?  How rarefied the air, here in the middle.  How lonely you are!  But I want you to persist.  You are too far for the lights of distant galaxies to penetrate.  You are going to have to do this by touch.  You will need to trust that you still have senses, and that there is something to detect.

Feel them?  The rocks?  The weathered crusts, the wrinkles?  There is no air blowing down here, Joe.  If anything is smooth, it is because it is worn by years.  Don’t bite Joe, it will break your teeth.  There are no soft centres here.  There are no soft exteriors.  Not down in the pit of love.  This love is ugly, Joe.  This love is ancient couples, sculpted by years.  This love sits quietly next to a shell that memory has deserted.  This love feeds a child that can never love back.  This love is dribbling, Joe.  This love has forgotten its dreams and turns up to work each day.  Its nails are broken, its fingers blue.  None of this love is what it was, Joe.  None of it is what it thought it would be.  It is spastic, it is crippled, it is overweight, it is anaemic, it is windblown and time torn, years shrunk and care worn.  This love endured, Joe.  It is ugly.  It is beautiful.

Yes Joe, I know it is hard to taste with that crass red rayon teddy caught between your teeth (3).  I wish you could have skipped that level, or taken a more expensive route at least (4).   The things you do for science (5).

 

(1)  Science is metric.

(2) ha ha, he is falling in love.

(3) cheap lingerie, the scabby gifts men buy for themselves but pretend even to themselves that it is for someone else.  French maids outfit, anyone?  Sexy nurse, perhaps?

(4) such is the level of our funding.

(5) Happy Valentine’s Day, scientists.  Your mate loves youse all!

Ancient Astronauts,

You taste like Mayans

You forbade the Israelites

eating crispy bacon

You left puzzles lying round

for us to find

Don’t you think that that

was rather unkind?

Your mysteries got us thinking

which interfered with

our time for drinking.

You built the Sphinx

You built Ancient Rome

Then you left us alone

when you returned home.

Ancient Astronaut Dad

do you love me the most?

I’ve made your favourite meal

Canned spaghetti on toast*.

*****

*Coming soon.  With pictures.#

#Don’t build it up too much idiot, its not that good.%

%Neither is this poem.^

^Poem?  You call this a poem.  This is rubbish.  But its Saturday and I had to post something.”

“Well what are you going to post on your poetry blog then>

> ……………..  the same thing?

The portal to all things Joe Chippish is here, just a click away.

Tears of a Clown, no longer easily obtained at my local bottle shop, does not taste like chicken.  Other products tested this week which do not taste like chicken include:

  • Cup of gall (also, cup of bitter gall)
  • Cup of bile
  • Vale of tears
  • Knuckle thanwich
  • Revenge (served hot or cold)
  • Heart of my enemy (bloody tough, and bloody)
  • Heart in my throat
  • Heart of stone (tasted like stone)
  • Blood, sweat and tears (lots of crying here in Glossolalia recently, apparently)
  • Total war
  • War on Terror
  • War on drugs
  • Class War (separate report is here.)
  • War on Poverty (I doubt this has really been tested)
  • Ebony and Ivory living together in perfect harmony (tasted like piano and ham)
  • None of your beeswax (tasted nothing like beeswax)
  • Gigantor (tastes like space age robot)

Unfortunately, separate reports are only available where indicated.

Next time, we shall look at salad.  Doesn’t that sound interesting?