Belief Systems & Other BS » poems

My Thoughts Profound

Angus — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 23:16:00 +0000

Posting doggerel remains perfectly legal, alack, alas…

My thoughts profound
divine do sound
when in my skull
I do expound.

But when I venture to uncover
my thoughts to others, I discover
that instead of these thoughts,
I should have others.

So back into my skull I go
to upset my mental status quo
& reassemble chunks of knowledge
for a better grasp of what I know.

& then bring forth my thoughts again;
this ebb and flow should never end.

Did you like this? You’ll love my books!

The Bar on Geary Street

Angus — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 17:25:08 +0000

To be sung in a bar with beer in hand, surrounded by friends. Irish accent optional, but encouraged.

I know a bar
on Geary Street
where sins confessed
are washed away.

And I confess
that in my youth
I went there, sometimes,
every day.

For the weight
of one day’s sin
was more than I could bear,
so off I’d go
to Geary Street
to find forgiveness there.

Oh how I miss
those days of youth
when I thought I
could be washed clean.
Now my trips to Geary Street
are few and far between.

But a wicked life is slow to pass
so here I am again,
to lift a glass with you
my friends,
and be washed clean again.

And of all the places to confess
right here, my friends, is surely best.

Did you like this essay? You’ll love my books!

My Padded Cell

Angus — Tue, 17 Mar 2009 05:01:38 +0000

This blog’s version of cat pictures is the occasional bit of verse… or sometimes, ‘verse’.

Thanks, I’m fine;
in fact, I’m very well—
you might be too,
in your own padded cell.

Though I think it’s heaven,
some think it hell;
it takes a special kind of person
to live in a padded cell.

You’re thinking, no doubt,
you’re not that kind of person…
but there’s only one way to tell;
consider taking
your next vacation
in a padded cell.

Two Mountain Biking Poems

Angus — Sun, 15 Mar 2009 16:39:59 +0000

For singletrackers everywhere.

An Uphill Poem
Breath is prayer,
sweat is a gift.
Pray hard.

A Downhill Poem
See the trail, not the rocks.
Then, just see the trail.
Then just… see.
Then: trail.

When a Writer Dies

Angus — Thu, 12 Mar 2009 02:44:40 +0000

When a writer dies, he is taken to heaven
and shown two rooms. One is like an aviary, very large,
the size of the Astrodome. Flitting about gaily are this writer’s
ideas, but not all of them—only the ones he wrote down
in a notebook. The second room is even larger, and very like
a landfill. Here is kept the vast pile of ideas the writer
failed to write down—these ideas are covered with
a sludgy tar, like birds in the aftermath of a
tanker accident. The writer is given a plastic spoon,
and when every one of the unrecorded ideas has been
scraped clean and set free, he too is allowed to
flit about, and be free.

True Love

Angus — Fri, 06 Mar 2009 19:34:39 +0000

Really, there is very little point in publishing a blog if one cannot present one’s own doggerel to the public…

Rather than
a simple stud or ring,
Jamie let himself
be talked into a tiny whistle
that sounded when he
held his nose and blew.
He liked the effect,
and arranged for a whistle
of different pitch
to be inserted in his
other nostril—
this allowed him
to play primitive tunes.

He attracted a mate,
a redhead who played
with metal thimbles
on her scarified thighs,
and the two of them
(as the saying goes)
made beautiful music together.

I Knew a Girl With an Extra Head

Angus — Fri, 06 Mar 2009 14:12:41 +0000

I knew a girl with an extra head.
Her hair was brown, but its was red.
It stayed up late after she went to bed,
she had to keep it washed and fed…
she wished it were a wart, instead.

When Bowling Pins Die

Angus — Sun, 01 Mar 2009 15:39:57 +0000

When bowling pins die, the blameless ones
—the pins that never shirked front line duty,
who never once flinched the moment before the ball struck—
are selected by the Great Pin Setter in the Sky,
according to His awful whim,
and refashioned into coke bottles,
the old-fashioned kind made of glass.

The battered old pins
are given a moment to revel
in their new, softly feminine forms,
in their delightful lightness and hollow fragility,
in their cerulean translucence…
and then they are returned to the material plane,
filled with sticky sweet fluids,
and sealed.

After weeks, or even months, of girlish longing
the day comes when they are selected for Consumption.
Instead of being bashed aside by eight pound spheres of resin,
they are lifted up and held gently, deftly circumcised,
and their sugary essence is slowly, appreciatively,
sucked out of them.

The experience, according to those who have experienced both,
is very like a kundalini awakening.