Ode to the Avocado

There is
no other green
in the world
that carries
your texture
and your taste.
Fingers linger on
your skin
waiting restlessly for
the ripening
into
your perfect softness.
Knives and spoons,
tongues and teeth
can not wait to break through to 
the moist velvet heart of you.

Of all fruits
your beckoning
is the strongest.
There is immediate
chemistry
between you and
us, the tongue bearers.
You are irresistible -
fingers flock to your silken
and pebbly skin
desperately wanting
to press and
squeeze
and
pinch
you.

When you cross
our paths with
your elliptical glossiness
the eating
of you
is inevitable.

Oh, Avocado, how you make
the mouth
a better place!
You are
the great tropical berry,
filling mouths and stomachs
with rich and nutty oils.
You are the globe
where
green peace
resides.

You unite
the disparity
in the salad bowl.
Cucumber, tomato,
lettuce, basil, olive oil,
lemon, black pepper and salt
make more sense with you around
What is tortillas, sushi,
crisp hot bread, pizza and
shrimps
without you?

Unhesitatingly
you mix
with
everyone.
You make
a celebration
of every meal.

Independent, well-defined,
and dignified - 
you are a meal on your own too.

Oh, Avo, you make the kitchen complete!

You are the king of fruits.
One whiff of you opens
soft, wet and
mossy forests around me.

Hanging from your tree
you lighten up the sun.
And how is it that you are 
more
buttery
than butter?

We want to hasten our patience
and stow you away in
brown paper bags, newspapers
and dark corners of baskets and pots
steering you into ripeness,
yet you have your own rhythm
that beats to your own season

Your name even sings with warm
and open syllables -
A-Vo-Ca-Do
A spelling sheer wonderment,
Vo signifying your eternal invogueness,
Ca sounding the thrill that careers through
the throat when a slice of you hits the tongue and
Do closing like a soft meadow on
all these sensorical richnesses.

And oh, let us not forget your majestical pip -
the seed that fills out the shape
of your pregnant belly.
When you are sliced open
your pip suddenly exposed and fragile,
wrinkly and papery, 
you cling on to the juicy flesh
refusing to let go of the fruit of life.

Oh, Avocado,
you make 
my mouth complete.
You dissolve
my inner conflicts.
I can not eat you alone,
I always want to share you.
With you on my plate
I can believe in
brotherhood again,
with you on my tongue
I can believe in
life again

and i'll huff and i'll puff till i blow my igloo down

in the preposterous situation of wanting everything and nothing all at the same time

the waves in my brain fluctuate at undesirable intervals

energy gushes from my muscles

I can not keep still

the unsatisfaction is draped all over my face

like falling cutlery my heart clatters loudly throughout my body

enough of this raucousness!

i fancy a bit of peace and quiet within the mineshafts of my soul

don't you have the right flame to ignite a longlasting fire within my soul?

or maybe you have an amplifier through which my meek little being can sound from

each thought, sight and dream have such verisimilitude

i used to grab all of the possibilities in fear of missing out

i simply understand that my mind works on a concatenation of poetic and unpoetic ideas

but where o where can I give life to this process in a new light?

must i conflagrate before I can rise anew from the ashes?

or maybe i am just living at the wrong altitude giving my blood a less than boisterous flow

and causing my nerves to jitter from morning till night

ah, can't the gods drip a bit of clemency over my head?

these blank page feelings are getting rather distasteful

it really puts me in such an egregious light that makes all the vile juices inside

my guts to foment into one hell of a revolution

now you ask what is the gist of all of this?

why all this huffing and puffing till i blow my igloo down?

you suggest i go for a weekend away to the karlsbad springs –

that might sort out the fomentation

and will inspire me to pen down a mellifluously sounding poem on the white winged lepidopterans

i will cease biting my nails and all orthopaedic worries will be a thing of the past

our worryphernalia knows only dustbinfinity

my eyes fimble through the dustilicious pages of historical hysteria

i break out in one great sneezery and just hravoc  between the syllaletters

what! you say i am in a farcy mood?

no way! i am simply having these lightbulbous moments

where i can really grisp the true meaning of generous profunding

it is a pity that our cellphonish gadgeteering

make us so ice-so-lated and

our worryphernalia knows only dustbinfinity

ah, come on, what has happened to your blisschievousness?

our tongues need to return to its original tasticality

rather than pwonder the queerific state of things

i snaddle up onto the bed

and do some proper blanketeering

i get so snozy that you might want to climb in with me

meaning you'll have to lift the sheets and open a fartinquiry 

to which i will laugheringly smol in your face!

Snob do not gloat

And so my parodies doth continue.

For a while now I have been craving to take the piss out of snobs. It is the one type of human that makes my palate itch most uncomfortably. Seeing that I have been using parody as a form of writing exercise I looked to the great and bold poem of John Donne Death be not Proud, substituting Death with Snob. 

Though this is a form of parody, my intention is not to mock, trivialize or demean the power and beauty of the original poem. 

The poem by John Donne follows at the end.

Snob do not gloat

Snob do not gloat, though thou think'st thou can stand

Tall and puffed up, and thou pretend'st to glow

For those whom thou hope'st to ov'rshadow,

Still shines, pitiable Snob, nor against me shall lift thine hand.

From skin and bone, for certain, thou art made,

Piss and shit, thou dost do, like the rest of us,

And suffer from illness and wounds that do puss,

and 'tis so that from mem'ry thou soon shall fade.

Thou draw'st to thy side braggarts and name-droppers,

and pull in smart-asses and a highbrow.

Earnestly I ask, how canst we this allow?

For they act ashamedly just like floppers!

We, the modest, should learn to touch the sky

And snobs shall look down on us no more; Snob, thou shalt cry.

The original poem by John Donne:

Death Be Not Proud

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so,
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. 

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well

And better then thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally

and death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

The Cross Roads II

Under an overhang of trees the Prehistoric Postal Agent stops and wonders

"Where have the Cross Roads gone?"

He has not seen it for days now.

"How am I to reach the right address to deliver the news without the Cross Roads?"

At the end of the overhang the dewdrops start to evaporate

and cause a play of light that startles the Prehistoric Postal Agent to his wits' end.

"Can this be the Second Coming?"

From behind the biggest tree the Wretch comes stumbling.

"No, you idiot, that is the Universal Hunger playing tricks on your brain!"

The Prehistoric Postal Agent, thinking that only he is the Carrier of Strange and Wonderful News retorts:

"Oh, come now, how dare you carry this news with such flippancy,

step around my toes and not on them, please."

The Wretch, not taken aback, continues reading the news.

"And so it has happened that under the overhang of trees the Prehistoric Postal Agent has been arrested for Universal Arrogance. He has to appear in the World Court of Fair and Gentle Speak by the end of the week."

The earth starts rumbling and shaking as the Cave-Dweller steps from under the trees.

"There is no such a thing as a Court of Any Sort. We live in a world where the winds rule over what's fair and right."

The Wretch couldn't believe his luck, for the first time someone is speaking up for him.

In the distance the Carillon rings in this odd and new occurrence.

This wakens the Anarchist's deep and long sleep on the tree's top branch.

He eyes the activities down below and can not help sniggering "How long they take to learn."

The Wretch jumps onto the tree and shakes off all the remaining dew drops.

"No!" shouts the Prehistoric Postal Agent "You can not do that!  You will be arrested for Universal Upset!"

The Loner has been viewing this mad interchange from up above on his lonely hill.

"Why get involved in anything? It is enough to be audible to only oneself."

Overhearing the Loner's thoughts, the Carillon replies: "On the contrary, I believe one needs to ring for all to hear!"

This link to the previous Cross Roads poem > 
http://laraafrika.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-crossroads.html

We are the Poets

Now and again I study strong poems and lyrics – getting a feel for their craft, rhythm, structure and the inspiration they imprint on us. As an exercise I re-write/re-fashion/transcribe them into my own new content. You might argue that it is a form of plagiarism, laziness, or arrogance;  I think it is pure and simple exercise AND an engaging way to truly absorb the original text. This time round I could find nothing better than Queen's famous anthem "We are the Champions" to be my next exercise. I re-worked it into > "We are the Poets" (Quite predictable, hey?!)

i write the words

day after day

i've made my verses

maybe they're just curses

and forced rhyming

hell knows why for

and i've had my dose of luck blessing my pen

but not enough

to go on and on and on and on

we are the poets, my friends

and we'll keep on writing till the end

we are the poets

we are the poets

no time for silence

cause we are the poets of the world

i've eaten my vowels

and my consonants

now i'm sweating metaphors

similes and all that jazz

i thank you Word

but i'm not finished with you yet, hang on in there

it is a discipline worth the practice

every season of the mind

in each turn of the pen

we are the poets, my friends

and we'll keep on writing till the end

we are the poets

we are the poets

no time for silence

cause we are the poets of the world

The original lyrics of the song by QUEEN

We are the Champions

I've paid my dues

time after time

I've done my sentence

but committed no crime

and bad mistakes

i've made a few

and i've had my share of sand

kicked in my face

but i've come through

and i need to go on and on and on and on

we are the champions my friends

and we'll keep on fighting till the end

we are the champions

we are the champions

no time for losers

cause we are the champions of the world

i've taken my bows

and my curtain calls

you've brought me fame and fortune

and everything that goes with it

i thank you all

but it's been no bed of roses no pleasure cruise

and i consider it a challenge before the whole human race

and i'd never lose

and i need to go on and on and on and on

we are the champions my friends

and we'll keep on fighting till the end

we are the champions

we are the champions

no time for losers

cause we are the champions of the world

An Odious Ode to Writer's Block

Oh, how Cunning and Pernicious Thou art

Acting like a Real Despicable Upstart

You make me Gobsmacked and Tongue-Tied,

How dare you walk with such a Confident Stride?

You leave me Dumbfounded and Thunderstruck,

How can you have Such Incredible Luck!

Why oh why dost Thou on mine Battery Piss

and Hope I doth not see your Astutely Insidious Underhandedness?

Thou dare'st come Wam Bam sit right under my Nose

and Unshamefacedly keep up your Neat Little Pose

Admirable in your Sly and Stealthy Way

You force me into this Battlesome Fray

At first I was quite Delirious with thy Heavy Hand numbing my Skull

I could not believe that You Vile Creature could make me so Positively Dull

When I discovered that It wasn't due to Lack of Concentration

I fell into a Quagmire of Dire and Dreadful Desperation

I stood up from my Bed, the Anger licking at my Spit

Arrrrggh, come what may, I have to climb out of this Slippery Dark Pit!

By now I knew for Certain and Without a Shadow of a Doubt

- In Great Earnestness I gave an Inflamed and Vehement Shout -

that I must refuse to be His Damned and Docile Slave

And by mine Own Reason and Wit should step away from his Encumbering Cave

As much as He tries to keep up with his Plotting and Scheming

I will Tenaciously keep Scribbling, and Beware, I will do it Screaming!

o gaats, ons digter het skrywersblok!

sy het by al die blaaie in die woordeboek gebedel

opsoek na daardie ontwykende woord

kruip dit weg in die donkerste hoek van haar skedel?

o fok, dit maak haar verboureerd en o so verstoord!

sy soek hier, sy soek daar, onder en bo, agter en voor

sy't nooit gedink dat sy haar sinne op hierdie manier sou verloor!

haar asem is vlak, haar voorkop die sweet

en haar hart het 'n paniekerige polsslag beet

wat moet sy doen om die woorde te wen?

verseker nie met die grandste bôlpoint pen

wat moet sy maak om die letters te oortuig

dat sy nou moeg is om voor hulle neer te buig?

is daar iewers 'n geheime resep wat haar kan vertel

hoe sy dit eenvoudig in woorde kan stel?

sy smeek dat die muses haar sal aanhoor

en hierdie aaklige lyding weg sal toor!

die plig

ek vou die wit blad oop voor my

en oombliklik daal daar 'n sware duiseligheid oor my

die plig om die woord neer te lê

lê swaar op my

ek kyk diep die son in

wag totdat hy in 'n brons blom verander

ek kyk diep die volstruis die oog in

sien net sy pote raak

ek het gehoop hierdie gevleuelde wese wat nooit vlieg

sal die antwoorde in my oor kan fluister

die kandelabra met die druppende kerse

kwinkeleer my aandag die dieptes in

demmit kan ek nie eenvoudig dink en skryf nie

waarom moet alles 'n alewige omslagtigheid wees?!?

my voete staan swaar op die aarde

wat het van die veerkragtige dans geword

wat my tot sonsopkoms gedra het?

my tong voel swaar

my bene voel swaar

my hart voel swaar

hoekom daal daar so dikwels hierdie neweligheid

oor al wat 'n droom en gedagte is?

ek het opgegee om te staan

toe gaan lê ek

toe raak ek weer angstig

en spring weer op

want as ek nie op aandag staan nie

mis ek die kans van 'n literêre leeftyd wat voor my oë

mag verby wals

The Sculptor Warrior and the Poet Goddess

My dream come true playing the piano at AfrikaBurn (photo: Kenny Yu)

After a few requests from people to share the poem The Sculptor Warrior and the Poet Goddess with them, I decided to post it onto my blog. It was the poem that Kim Goodwin and I wrote last year. We then recited it in the Tankwa Karoo at this year's AfrikaBurn festival during my piano performances under The Wattle Tower - the pagoda-structure that Kim designed and built with the help of five crew members.

But first I would like to tell the story behind the poem:

A year ago Kim and I met each other for the first time at AfrikaBurn. I was too occupied with my own performance poetry pieces and Kim was too busy building his beautiful wattle sculptures The Fear Gods to pay any more attention to each other. Yet on the last night we were sitting around a fire and as the flames got smaller and smaller we moved closer and closer together, our eyes and our hearts met, felt the spark and fell deeply in love with each other. The following morning Kim and his crew hit the road back home to the Natal Midlands and I went my way to Cape Town. Before we parted ways we clumsily exchanged our contact details. I thought maybe this is the last goodbye, what would be the chance of us getting together again? Two days later I fumbled through my AfrikaBurn debris and gaspingly looked for the paper Kim wrote his number on. Ah, I found it! I ran to the piano that was standing in the house I stayed over at the time and dialed Kim's number. As soon as he answered I positioned the phone on the side of the piano and started playing a slow improvisation for him. I intensely wished he would not put the phone down and listened through to the end. I played for around three minutes. When I finished playing, without saying a single word, I put the phone down. My heart was racing as I just sat numbly on the piano stool, girlishly excited. Scarcely did a few minutes pass when Kim called back. Though he had never heard me play before he knew it was me playing over the phone. Within that first week we phoned, mailed and sms'ed each other. In one of the messages he sent me a poem he wrote The Sculptor Warrior and the Poet Goddess. At the end of the poem he wrote:

"...and thus she spoke:" expecting a poetic answer from me. Within a day I sent him my response.

Here is his poem followed by mine:

The Sculptor Warrior and the Poet Goddess

The Sculptor Warrior felt a deep thick river of joy

running  through his soul

His cup was full

The battle in the Karoo was over

A battle with love and creativity,

weaving soul stories with grey and brown sticks

The Poet Goddess stole into the gathering

subdued crackling and sparking in the darkness

The two creatures sat beside each other

His silver beard, her eyes, her eyes looking,

listening, breathing each other in

Pan smiled under the shade of the stars

ah flesh, ah water, aaaah fire

Time and space grew between them

The Sculptor Warrior in his autumn home dreamed,

pondered, and thus he spoke:

Your exquisite chemistry has altered my mind

Now I see you amongst thorn trees, near the ocean

on top of the mountains

Oh Poet Goddess I will live in the moment

until these delicious imaginings become manifest

And thus she spoke:

Oh Warrior, you who command branch, skin  and clay
To twist and turn according to your hands at play
You who make the gods stand to attention
You who climb the heights of your imagination
And do not fear the falling
Or the rising

I have known your soul long before I set eyes upon you
I have felt your hands long before you touched me
I have heard your voice long before you have spoken

And when you arrived
your voice
spun
a
golden
thread
around
my
spine
serpentining
your
fleshylicious
soul
right
around
the
hunger
of
my
body

Let us sculpt and sing aloud
the contours of our art
Let us cross the lines
And break the barriers

From tree to tree
stone to stone
wave to wave
mountain to mountain
I'll spin a golden thread,
hang my heart on it
And send it now to thee

Kim reading his poem under The Wattle Tower (photo: Michael Yankelev from The Freedom Seekers)

- - -

A month after writing our poems and communicating non-stop we realized we love each other too much not to be together. In June of 2012 I moved in with him at his home in the Midlands.

A year went by loving and living.

AfrikaBurn 2013 arrived. We spent 24 days in the Tankwa Karoo building on two of Kim's projects The Earth Pods and The Wattle Tower. The Tower was the space that hosted me and my piano for three piano concerts during the festival. It was a dream of mine to play a real piano in the Tankwa and this year thanks to Kim we made it a reality! Added to this excitement was our happiness in celebrating our one year anniversary in the place where our Love-Fire started.

Each year AfrikaBurn chooses a theme from which the festival-goers and artists can tap into to guide their creative inspiration. This year the theme was Archetypes, and how significant to have realized that with this poem we wrote last year we tapped right into potent archetypes and unleashed them with our love and our poetry.

In,

For 

and

With

Love,

Lara

photo: Gary van Wyk

photo: Lauren Clifford-Holmes

photo: Jonx Pillemer

photo: Gary Goodwin

Die soen

ek kan niks anders vind wat beter is as

die soen van jou mond teen myne

met die soen word

ons monde en koppe een

ons weet nie watter lippe watter tong watter tande

is myne

en

watter is joune

om jou te soen is om 'n woudpad voor my

te sien oopbreek in die skemer van die dag

om jou te soen is 'n verrukking wat my hele lyf omswaai

en in 'n heel nuwe wentelbaan gooi

om jou te soen is om myself te verdrink in die kelk van 'n papawer

ek voel die lente deur jou lippe breek

dit proe na koel-soet dou in die vroeë oggendure

jou soen wat liefde so eindeloos spreek dat dit

my hart bont-vol laat staan van oorvloed

ek kom soek my asem

ek kom soek my asem op hierdie papier

ek kom delf vir 'n bietjie vrede vir my hart

uit  in die oopte verloor ek my bedaardheid

met enige wenteling van die oomblik

ek verloor kop

ek snak na my asem

my keel trek op 'n knop

al wat ek weet

is dat as ek kom skryf

raak dit stil in my

as ek sin maak op papier

dan begin dinge sin maak om my

eenvoud-dig

ek wil net slaap

maar hier staan ek

met my uil pantoffels

voor die laptop en

maak sin van die

punt blare wat wieg

in die wind die

hoenderhaan kraai die duif

tortel ek sug en die

rooi kar sny deur

die grondpad en groen

weivelde dit trek my

oog na die bottelborsel

wat net so lekker

aan't wieg is en

ek raak op my

voete aan die slaap

ek moet net nog

een keer kyk na

wat daar so graag

gesien wil word my

oё raak weg in die

jasmyn en die plantasies

en my ore word

ge-abba deur krieke ek

hoor die vlieg agter

tralies ek maak die

venster oop

hy vlieg buitentoe

en laat my

alleen

hier binne agter

First drop

For Kim

Your love
is like that moment
that
first
drop
of
water
breaks through the parched earth

-

You are the beauty of the earth
I want to enshroud you
like
slippery moss

-

eavesdropping

as a matter of fact

it goes without saying

you know

i agree

to tell the truth

but it all depends

you see

they say

it is wellknown

relatively speaking

live in the moment

however

don't forget

to look at it in this light

it is like i say

i heard the other day

click on this link

bru you have to check it out

the kiefest thing i've ever seen

it has come under my attention

time is running out

deadlines

deadlines

deadlines

cross your fingers

smell the flowers

and the world will smell with you

can't we get a move on?

though

maybe

perhaps

however

it would appear

contrary to popular belief

the wheels are gonna fall off

great!

any questions?

so you think you can

eat pray love?

well i never

in more ways than one

i have no doubt in my mind

statistics show

regrettably

the weather looks good today

excellent!

indeed

in retrospect

who would have thought

i will make it

you understand?

how many times do i have to tell you

shit happens

not now

some other time

will it be a problem?

i'll text you

it should be emphasized

i believe

ja

it has come to this

i fear

forever and ever

aweh and amen

jy probeer sy dimorfika sonder xenofobia te aanskou

onbelangstellend kyk die stuk wit my in die
oog lag vir my dat ek aanhitser-aanhitser speel
"vir wat wil hierdie versie-maker nou my mooi

blanke vlak beswart met woorde?" is dit nie al
hierdie versameling woorde wat hierdie rommelary
in die wêreld veroorsaak nie? wat sal gebeur as

ons elk 'n kloosterbestaan inval sal ons dan ophou
om ons koppe te insemineer met opgesmukte idee's
dit is die noodlot met die pratende monde

ly ons nie maar almal aan eggolalie nie?
van toentertyd bly ons neerskryf jirre, die
palimpses val al uitmekaar soos 'n verrotte

sakdoek ons verliefdheid op ons sogenaamde vryheid
maak ons ewige slawe van hierdie enkele idee
boender hierdie malligheid weg! koop

splinternuwe moed by die padstalletjie om die
draai smeer fango-modder op jou gesig en
begin sing in kontrapunt ons vermaaklikheidsmania

wil heeltyd die ogiesdraad van ons grense oorskry
roep al jou kornuite saam nooi hulle vir ratatouille
moenie stres as hulle die eiervrug opslobber voordat

dit gebak het nie en pasop vir hulle dipsomaniese tendensies
jy het net soveel stamina om hulle sodomitiese gewoontes
te verduur maar in jou mou voer jy al lank planne om hulle

onder jou dwingelandy te bring jy weet nie presies hoe nie
maar jy het genoeg optimisme om in jou visie te bly glo
jy giet 'n okarina in die doodsuur van die nag sodat

jy teen sonsopkoms met al die suurstof in jou longe
die oggendsinjaal kan blaas die plaveisel kraak op
drie plekke in plaas van die dipsomaniakke wakker

maak roep die fluit vir Pan uit sy sluimering die lug raak
vir 'n oomblik newelig jy voel soos 'n slaapwandelaar
hande uitgesteek dryf jy deur die dynserigheid

jy sien mettertyd Pan se ragfyn slaapkouse aan sy bokpote
jy is oorstelp van vreugde van alle plekke en tye maak hy
hier by jou sy verskyning jy probeer sy dimorfika sonder

xenofobia te aanskou maar kry dit nie so maklik reg nie
met ongekunstelde panache kom hy sy lyf en asem soos
'n wilde rankplant om jou lyf vlei jy voel hoe die soele

warmte van 'n opwinding deur jou lendene en brein smelt
maar voordat jy met jou oooh en aaaah dwepery kan begin
span hy jou in met die disselboom jaag hy jou soos 'n pakdier

deur die strate en voer die mees ongenadige klopjag uit jy bly
loop met 'n aangeleerde lankmoedigheid jy hoor hoe
sy kloppende hoewe die straat agter jou uitkalwe jy droom

van pamperlang en dolce far niente en gesprekke gevul met
pleonastiese toutologieë maar voel hoe hierdie wilde ding die
leisels stywer trek soos wat die gesigseinder net nie nader wil

kom die mees gehardste seerower sou jou met meer sensitiwiteit
hanteer wat de hel, jy het jou maandelikse paaiemente altyd betyds
betaal wat is sy vendetta? het hy 'n kontantvloei-probleem? was sy

vorige projek om 'n oligargiese hel te proseliteer?
ironies hoe die oënskynlike vryste wese tussen ons
sy eie wilde planne het om ons vryheid vir homself te vat

this higgledy-piggledy poem will soon do a posthumous twinge

you hopscotch through your vocabulary and wish with a dose of humility
that you will be able to reassemble all your wild running thoughts
into
one
riotously
terrific
poem
the words push you forth inexorably
if you don't play along you will turn into a deranged riparian
this long drawn-out hiatus keeps your wordy soul from doing its rigorous growing
is it something in the air that makes you so hard-headedly huffish?
you wrench the words from the dictionary scream it out aloud, regardless of
the tympanitis that the walls might suffer from
your pen can sometime be an introverted cuttle-fish
too demure, too shy or too whatever to spurt out its ink
there are rich golden hives out there that you wish would incubate your tongue
and let it grow into the most resoundingly resplendent hunting horn
but oh the chassis of your being can at any moment detach itself from sanity
and go forth into a Homeric rising of the X-factorising of the mind
jeeez, this makes your cellular make-up feel all too yeasty for your liking
this continuous detouring into twaddling...
don't you sometime wish you could turn yourself into a rapacious despot
and ravish the world with some high faluting howdah?
even the wood nymphs, periwinkles, hermaphrodites and rhebuck will
fall under your yoke
how awesome!
but enough now of this cubiclelized talk!
why can't you break out more often in some desultory ribaldry
forget about rationing the mind
let it loose!
annexate the hippodrome put on your mantle and smile your cherubic smile
you'll start speaking in tongues and writing in hieroglyphs
oh, stop this hoity toity hoodwinking and talk straight
take the tweezers and pull out the thorn of thine own foot
irrigate your mouth with turpentine
look up to the cerulean skies
lose that pot-belly of laziness
dethrone your cut-throat desires and lift the curfews of the man-made laws
learn to play the hurdy-gurdy and stop all rivalry
it will be good for your health
what if you go for some good ol' hydrotherapy
the jaundice-colour in your cheeks will lift
this higgledy-piggledy poem will soon do a posthumous twinge
hip hip hoorah!