Look at ME.
Look at me,
read me, read me.
I’m a bad poem.
I’m a really bad poem
What did you expect?
We can’t all be Infernos,
Paradisos or Purgatorios
written by genius poets -
some of us were written by dotty twats,
some of us weren’t blessed with nice words
like sin or salvation,
and some of us wouldn’t know the meaning of allegory
if it bit us on the arse
with all the savagery of a starving dog seeking sustenance
because it hasn’t eaten in three days
because it couldn’t move
because a bigger dog mauled its right ear
and tried to chew its legs off.
I’m a bad, bad poem.
I don’t rhyme, I don’t scan
and I don’t really want to -
scanning is for cissies.
I’m too shallow for metaphors or similes
but I wouldn’t mind the odd yellow smiley or two
to brighten up my page.
Keep reading me, reader,
you never know what might happen (nothing)
before The End.
That wasn’t The End, by the way.
I’m still here, I’m still going,
on and on -
I can’t finish until I mention
the words SOUL and DEPTHS
and BETWIXT and ‘ERE and
I forget the others,
I forget my own banalities, my own boringness,
and all the wordy shite I really should learn
if I could be arsed.
But I can’t be arsed, and not being arsed
makes me not only a bad poem
but a bad, LAZY poem,
a bad, lazy poem about nothing,
a bad lazy poem that couldn’t hold a meaning if I had twelve hands to hold it in,
but I don’t have twelve hands
because poems don’t have hands,
we don’t have arms or legs either,
or a head,
or an arse;
we don’t fuck, we don’t breed, we don’t suckle our spawn.
All we can be is what we are.
Now is The End.
The End is nigh.
Death beckons and soon I will die.
I did a rhyme
The throes of death fling me here, there and everywhere,
but my formatting is shite so you’ll have to visualise it.
Now I’m dead. The End.
Oh, wait, hang on,
here’s a nice word with magic powers -
if you’ll come back and read me again.