Alright, my ladies and my gents,
It's time to rant and place to vent;
I have been holding back a bit
Because my life was full of shit,
So, now that things are not as fucked
I shall narrate my bitchin' luck.
Throughout the last two weeks or so,
The weather got me down; I hit
Shit, screamed shit, slept a lot, did not
Get much around. But to be fair, I am a square,
Don't get around at all,
So 'tain't much of a loss, so...screw you all.
Last week, with my parental units
And the Korean from upstairs,
We to Victoria departed
To see some cool Egyptian wares
From the Museum of the Brits
(To be precise, bits stolen by the Brits).
It was in all truth quite enlightening
And I enjoyed every one bit,
(Though the ferry ride was tiring,
I must as an aside admit).
At any rate, there was a number
Of fascinating items there:
The turtle-headed god for one,
Did me impress, as well the art
In general, the methods, skill,
The language, the success of satire
Of animals at board games I
Admired, and marvelled I—
There is constancy in human
Nature; there always was a loss of
Love and gain of power, there were
False, grandiose accounts of battle,
Scratched-out cartouches, wall graffiti:
Tutenkhamen, Karnak and Nefertiti...
But for all that fell and rose, I was not
Alone. At any rate, on the
Way there and the way home I have
Sketched a few things I saw along
The way, (my Pentax was being repaired),
Another reason to bitch here.
I asked Charles for his camera
With which a few shots I then took,
So now you can compare my sketches
To see how some things really looked.
Alas, the pics are of the voyage,
The Brits won't let us shoot their shit.
At any rate, I'll scan some pics:
I got a pamphlet for you dicks.
I see my verse now falters, quivers
So I'll some current news deliver.
I got a new Microshaft mouse
Blue, wireless, optical and version two.
My old one broke somehow and I
Did something I before could never do:
I called the cursed Microshafting store
And told them to send a replacement;
Some girl there hopped on to the basement
And mailed me a new mouse in a week!
What is surprising in this story
Is that they did not ask me to return
The old equipment, did not stick it
To me about the inventory,
But simply shipped me a new mouse
(Ironically, my father fixed the old one—
There was an immolated insect,
Roasted in the dire fire
Of the circuit board, where it made its house).
Oh yeah, I bought a wireless keyboard
And an air-mouse, which went dead—
A pity, since I'd type this from my bed.
At any rate, (fuck, nothing rhymes
Today), as an early present
For my upcoming birthday (Nov.
3rd to all you peasants), my da-da-dad
Bought me some 5.1 surround
Speakers to use with the sound card I had.
On th' second day, my card went bad
(The SB Live! held not much "Value"),
And since with me cash rarely lingers,
Running on down like sand through fingers,
I then to London Drugs progress
And purchase SB Audigy LS.
On th' twenty-eighth, to add variety
To life I caused myself some strife
By failing my road test with flying
Colours: at first, my dear Chevette
Won't even start its 80s valour;
I got my tester to jump-start me.
Indeed, an inconspicious start;
We did depart, but the guy was
A grade-A iffy bitch: apparently
He wanted me to go from fifty
In the city to eighty on
The highway in a jiffy (in an '80 Chevette).
As well, his definition of
Obstructing traffic where some shit
Was being constructed was whacked-out:
He'd rather have me take a risky path
Than break and let all forward traffic
Slowly pass and then proceed.
But what's the use of arguing with
Those jerks. I failed, so what? I had
A laugh, I paid, what, 75 bucks
To renew my N card with a nice,
New drugged-out photograph and left
To drive for five years like a maniac.
What's left to tell? My day of birth
Is coming, so uncan your mirth
And bring me stuff; nah, just kidding,
To show up would be quite enough, though
Lack of time or politics may
Be forbidding (you know who you are).
No matter, you can always find
Me here ("matter" rhymes with "mongol
Tatar"). Man, did this poem
Get fucked or what, oh yeah, I should
Bait you with some new verse:
"Khamsin 38", for instance.
That one speaks of my counter-manic
Trance, or (though it isn't news as
Such), "i think too much...", and all alone
I sat, penned "Mack Mickey Malone",
And if that does not your hunger
Whet, there is always a good, old-fashioned—
"Stet", in actuality one
Of my most thought-out verses, though,
Since poesy does not fill purses,
And one does rarely think of its design,
Of thought-blocks and creative curses,
Most will not to it any worth assign.
Well, this is it, my faithful readers,
If you read this far, damn bird-
Feeders, congratulations on
Your efforts, though I must say there
Is no prize, other than to hear me
Improvise, raise my eyes to pie paradise with my brows.