Happy Saturday, folks!
I'm still bloody well snowed in and it's really boring and cold. Got some heavy beats laid down for my novel today though, which I guess is a good thing.
Today's poem is all about the realistic terrors one goes through when faced with a life that has briefly crumbled before your eyes. You just gots to scoop them pieces into a cellophane bag and throw them off a cliff, otherwise they'll get real mouldy and start to impinge on your brand new life, which, though it may be a little slow to begin with, it going to be a thousand times better than the old one because you're not carrying around a dead weight of rancidity. Glean from that what you will my darlings.
Day 38! (Scary number!)
The Four Stages of Overcoming Defeat
Stage 1 involves covering your face with PVA glue
and singing along with the microwave.
Become a bed. Let everything inside you fall asleep.
Draw 1 inch of water and then eat the paper.
You are ready for Stage 2.
Carve a story of the sea onto the back of a chocolate bar.
Sell it to a sheikh for a thousand apologies.
With them, buy yourself a new backpack;
we’ll be going on a hike.
Whitewash a cabbage and use it as a snowball
against the fiends of the mountain.
They might look like thin air,
but they’re definitely going to try and kill you.
Take ‘em down to advance to Stage 3.
Stay in for twelve years waiting for a phone call.
Stage 4 arrives when you realise what a fool you’ve been,
at which point you will stand up, turn once around
and be transported to a train station of yesteryear.
Get on the train and don’t look back.