When I am listless, I type lists
of all those things I love to hate
or people that, as mood insists,
I feel the need to denigrate,
like hoards of misers, clenching fists
and hand-on-heart philanthropists
hot clerics, iced evangelists
those good for nothing nihilists
(God knows who'll love the atheists)
the pious praying, turning cheeks
while old-school sadists tie their wrists
the doomed, with paddles up their creeks
the humble and the hedonists
genomic geeks, phenetic freaks
the flatline graft of fatalists.
Misogynists? Well, that's just sick;
the bloated body politic
pot-bellyache economists
and parasite recidivists
the military, anarchists
antiques that rhyme, not reason, seeks
a plague of ists that off me pissed
agendas hidden in critiques
that hangdog bitch compiling lists.
No, wait, there's so much more to come...

(the final throes of tedium)

Much later, squirming in my pit
I ask myself: who wrote this shit?
and screw that mother up, I swear
explicit lists are not my style
I guess I lost it for a while,
you know the score [I wasn't there].
Fresh out of luck, well WTF
a badass title sets me free
of all responsibility
et voila -- instant poetry.

01/08/2010

Author's Note: [edit 17-06-15]

Posted on 01/08/2010
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