The sorry man squeezes out his semen in secrecy like one would a tube of toothpaste while the rest of the world is doing it on television for $19.95. It is breakfast time for the little ones. Hecuba is giving birth to a musician who is playing the cello with Curly Stooge's head as Jackie Gleason plays billiards with the photograph of a half eaten jellyfish. These situations present themselves often with every mind's awakening. (Usually not however, so vivid until one needs exaggerate, or is at least presented a financial gain). But let's get serious for a moment. There are some people on this Earth who are put here to chisel hair off from the statues of men who have since gone bald. (I'm only here in charge of closing their eyes when they've died). Other members of society enjoy providing pedicures with their teeth. The dead cuticles are then used to sweeten the tea. A lone and sad girl sits in her vegetable bedroom and looks over to imagine the clocks counting down with a world caught in a most classic Mexican standoff. All she wants to do is love poetic fresh air and to win stuffed animals. Maybe she'd even like an organic life, and some plush fabrics while dreaming with someone tangible to tuck in beside her. However, all these things are prohibited by millions of votes collected by men who can't even count as high. The politicians who'd as soon shit on a plate to feed their children wear nice guy disguises to be the first man on Mars. However, the trick is that they don't even find it necessary to actually travel there, for they can simply fabricate their own lifeless planet right here on Earth. Then of course there's my view point. They'll have to turn the world into a vast dessert anyway for the cows that'll be chopped over and frozen then placed in everybody's microwaver so that we can be numb and strong enough to push the shiny red buttons in case the chain reaction doesn't go according to plan. Fear the sculptors and forlorn girls; we know how to utilize a sales pitch: You're killing our freedom, money back guarantee, and there's no interest until the second coming. Oh, and lots of dancing sex too, (dripping with gold). You'll find yourself asking, "Where does one go from here, I'd seen a dead man while walking home tonight." But it was only you and I again, so it makes no difference to us. We lie severed at a table set for two bleeding and waiting for refills every day while another cello's broken string leads always to someone's body burning eventually. I think we should be content in this being buried alive underneath the high fashioned genocide. There is plenty going around, to get around.Birth sign: Sagittarius
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Adam Gaucher.