Prosaic Crap

Prosaic Crap

I came and I wept,

No joy or real delight,

In ramblings of sad, sick,

Thoughtless meanderings hiding sense.

Is there a point?

I hardly know, can’t see,

What is your real intention?

They say, ‘those in the know,’

That it is bloody brilliant,

Gaffaw, Gaffaw!!

Why don’t you show me,

the door?

I’d leave and rejoice,

Not hearing your voice.

Art for the sake of wit,

Or do you intend,

That I presume or intuit?

As they boast, whom they know.

I feel lost, alone.

But had hoped to feel ,

A whiff of air,

A clue, a subtle hint,

Tainted as polo mint,

When all the reasons go.

Never shall I conclude,

My wait to hear,

Some sense of poetry.

Your gait, the lengthy spate,

Has left a marble,

Rolling along the floor.

Someone scrambling to stand,

A fucking gun, in their hand!

Yes blow them out!

The raucous shout,

Of friends made devils,

Under drugs of coke.

And possibly my heart,

Could feel the sorrow.

To miss a ‘Bard,’

A lyrical genius at work,

Now who’s the F…ing berk?

With thy’s and thee’s,

And cavorting maniacal,

Bullshit.

Then who am I to,

Laugh and scoff?

Never been a toff,

Nor beaten up a boff.

Or been whacked off,

So soft the lyrical cloth,

My cap I doff,

And now taste the moth,

Mixed into scolding broth,

All my shame peeled off,

Now who gives a toss?

C.A D.