Campaign poem, poem about poetry and bum trips. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed on my day off. How many poets does it take to screw up screwing in a light bulb? One, but they will complain the whole time. Wrote this poem comparing my Reddit readings to Garfield the Cat's song and joke routine from the ol' funny papers.
Garfield's State of the Union Address
Haughty suburbia, hold your scorn
if only for a second! I present to you a
heartland offer, your evening for a
song! Pass the time with feline girth
and pooft topped by an Illinois lunar
eclipse of the banjo mantras, the kind
of cheep salvation akin to reading
Genesis hungover or Ecclesiastes lit.
All for the price of a shave and biscuit,
gravy rhythm collides on the turnoff -
hey wilde cat, don't you need some of this?
I can mew your maidenhead back, but
save your wishes for Father Christmas,
sledding down the short stack, monkey paw
in place of his hand.
After I wrote the poem above a fellow stopped my my reading. It turned out he hailed from Mongolia, a country I lived in for two years. Before leaving they told me to be strong like a Mongolian horse, something that touched me.
Mongolian Horse Verse
Pale mare: soot mane thunders across
the plains, bivouac pack weaving
throat lyrics across the hills, elevating
the snowy peaks, reuniting Prometheus
with the snow and mud.
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