All entries for Wednesday 16 March 2005
March 16, 2005
Bit of an odd sonnet this turned out to be, it's about a nice guy who gets sick of being nice, so he stops.
So now I know nice is liked, but not desired,
Now I know you’re unkind, but are.
I seem to think that you’re a liar,
I seem to know you’re life’s deluded star.
I wanted to be liked for who I am.
I didn’t think I deserved your ire.
But I was an idiot, well God-bloody-damn,
I guess to diff’rent heights I will aspire.
As a bastard pulling strings I will go far,
I’m playing with your life, like fire,
I inhale power and perfume like it’s tar,
Your life entwined with mine, both sinking in the mire.
I’m an arse ‘cos you didn’t like me nice.
Now I’m not, does it seem strange I entice?
There’s a girl out there who doesn’t like me,
Sometimes I think that girl is you,
There’s nothing I wouldn’t not do for thee,
But there’s a list of things that I would do.
I would pick you plucky, pithy flowers,
Pull them from the earth, imagining your heart
‘cos I’m not strong.
Dandelions, buttercups, nettles, a little daisy chain,
A child’s bouquet for child’s listless love.
I would write a bad poem,
It wouldn’t have meter or form or
Rhyme or rhythm,
And I’d fill it with a thousand clichés, more
Clichés than stars in the sky:
Totally unromantic, and not the romantic way.
I would be the least romantic man,
In the history of cavemen.
I can’t even claim to be able to provide.
Except a sense of annoyance,
Almost weak enough to be loathing,
I’d be the burr stuck in your hair.
I’d scratch your neck.
I would cling on
Tightly, pathetic, pitiful and wet,
Knowing you are too nice to throw me off yet,
Clinging doggedly on,
Vague attempts at puppy dog eyes,
My limpid resistance a surprise,
Knowing you wish me gone.
But I won’t go,
And I won’t try to fight,
So fuck you and what you want,
I’m not doing this right.
I would do nothing
To Shakespeare's Man
1. Thou wert, apparently, more beautiful,
Than dryad, nymph, fair siren's song,
That phrases elegand and plentiful
Did flowst from Bard's mouth, like a river long.
So 't'would everlong run, a monument,
To thy wondrous visage, that men hath said,
If they had half thy looks, would be content
Pyramids, chruches, Helen in her bed.
Yet twerps who read out poems do not know
Your name, place, status, hair colour, nor can
They remember S. placed own worth below
Yours, nor do girlfriends know you are a man.
So we (instead of you, forgotten quick)
Remember Shakespeare, monumental prick.
2. I pity you, who's beauty Shakespeare sought,
Entombed in words, eternally onlooked,
By those like you trapped in schools, or else bought
In sappy cards, copied by kids from books,
Where you are half remembered, not recalled,
As muse of one's talents, who knew himself
(delluding you that beauty fades nor falls)
He would be famed, remembered, and yourself
Would be evidence to what we suspect
But shouldn't care for, it's talent we hear,
Your only remembrance, what could be more perfect,
Is proof that Shakespeare really was quite queer.
So a poem to set you free I offer
Hoping my talents none will remember.