Most of us make America mean the world,
or sometimes we put ‘Australia’ in its place.
B. O’D.
Tag: demos (page 1 of 1)
the drones of prole patrol the moon that satellite of filth - their lanterns mark the greasy poles its dark side pepper (salt with futile cries & lunar dews & sad stories drones will tell of extra-terrestrial rents & arbitrage by mammon's earthly (hags o'er those captains of industry whose gold we gleefully polish in our dull second-class illusion we will rise above the (swill for life is complicated by the fact we all must die but also by the fact that tungsten's rare & bitumen scarce as well still we pave our lunar (roads & the drones of prole asssemble until someone flicks a switch then via teleportal shoots them & thus arriving new on the moon they're sent to work the mines or steer the portal ships that bring the lunar riches back to earth to feed the new (machines that give us birth we're programmed to repeat then fade like instrumental tracks the germ of human struggle manufactured (soup & on the drones of prole do seethe in chatter & in bits ‘twas ever thus & thus shall be their role to us (resist as we look up through mists to see the moon's dim gulf of proletaria - that new eureka for the (proles
‘Proletaria’
B. O’D. (date)
i am not fazed by spurious notions
of what is good or what is bad
i just flip open that temporal wallet
& spend (it's like getting laid
or tying one on & imagining X
could well be my imaginary friend
or else i simply steal someone else's
idea (it's true i have no shame
laughing in the face of those fogey
poets who call meh 'a disgrace'
to them i bellow simply that my
muse must be obeyed (and paid!
who said that art's god's way of
helping us pass the time? what rot
equally crap's the notion that we
write to please this so-called god
do i write to illuminate some trace
of time on a sky's tight canvas?
to harp on about beauty? no!
(unless it be a sniper's silent gun
i'll trade both the names i call
myself for ern's eponymous knacks
the only mystery is how far i've
come without being hit by jitches!
for an undisclosed sum i'll gladly
write an ode to the constitution
& for not much more i'll pen a laud
to a common or garden hose
whatever the turgid coolhunters
recommend as being of the now
i'll damn with my seething stanzas
(yea i'll even consider it fascist
like mosquitoes trapped in amber
they'll learn to regret their fads
& those requiring elegies (or funeral
songs will simply have to wait
theoretically I'm something of a prick
(i'm not too proud to admit
to prostitute my talent thus while
so many good poems beg to be -
but I must somehow make the down-
payments on my Etruscan villa
& for those of us in the industry
this means writing is simply a job
i am poet momentous (no more
moody or sleepless nights for meh!
i'd rather see my poems on greeting
cards than yell at empty chairs
now there's no poem that can match
the noisome grandeur of war -
but at least i can think about peace
while praising cheap champagne
‘A Poet of the Moment’
B. O’D. (date)
final oceanic junk channel-deepened
by temporal bo'sun of the universe
are you some castaway floating sea
kelp island where dawning abendland
in elysian fields of restfulness recon-
structs her deadly breeding grounds?
or are you one of the gods sun ra
maybe following the comet kohoutek?
are you in favour of daylight savings
bonsai maintenance massive oil wars
or just some mosquitoes flying through
the dredged & dying murray wetlands?
could you be an untapped source
of poisons for travelling parasites
or are you still hiding that sneaky Y2K
virus in your unpopped pimples?
see the ANZAC memorials to the rest
of the earth's extinct flora & fauna
that within your vast circumference
kick against the pricks & crash down
or else act like cruel coat hangers
& behead those riding underneath trees
blending superstition with the brave
recommendations of commissioners
to brand that theoretical spot in our
atmosphere with an unequivocal X -
the innocent & pacified collaborators
who coaxed the flies into your mouth
could this crimson burka twisted o'er
the face of morgenland's hag
augur destructions for the peroxide-
invader (or could it be a hoax?
....
what prophecies shimmer like mirages
in the mullah's cryptograms
could they be harmonic lightning
(or just a prisoner's final prayer?
....
do these missiles & their vapour
trails contain future rain or blood
& if so will it be brought in bottles
(or will these too be extradited?
....
day-glo nations moonwalk on quick-
sands of terroristic wilderness
wear the flag like crosses (on backs
along their fake grunge calvary
....
look here we have three words
(i weave a sign 'beware of sharks'
& walk on down the beach into the
post-romantic dardanelle dark