Some silly nonsense on a Thursday night
who live in the beat trees
only come out for cigarettes
and smart cocktails in geometric glasses..
And it doesn't matter what winding
woodland path you trala along
because they always see you.
They've each got a monocle
made from the bottom of a coke bottle
they keep in their dandy
ironically patched waistcoat pockets
on the end of an obsessively polished
gold and gold chain.
It's better to give them a wink
and a wave or a double snap fist slap point
because they know that one.
It's their inside joke.
It's their in the know nod
to a time with the firefly woods
were shiny and each butterfly
was pink and red and in love.
Back in the flutterby days they used to say,
when everything was better.
Just agree and sneer with them.
Offer them a light
and look forlorn.
They'll think you belong there:
an oldtimer, in those woods next to
that refrigerator graveyard
where elephants fear to tread.
But you're not from there
even if deep down you wish you were
you'll never fit in.
A square peg in a slightly smaller square hole.
You didn't see the war of the daisies.
You didn't choose sides in
the battle for the afternoon clouds.
You were on your back with you girlfriend
pointing out which puffs looked like
bunnies, libraries, Houdini's lock pick.
So just pick up your basket
and continue on your stroll.
Be cordial but not friendly.
And when you reach the clearing
don't look back.
They won't be behind you.
They already left.
Eternity is waiting and the charge must begin.
Tomorrow's not going to destroy itself now is it?
Poetry by Rapscallion
Read 551 times
Written on 2009-02-27 at 05:19
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The Hipster Goblins Who Live In the Trees
The hipster goblinswho live in the beat trees
only come out for cigarettes
and smart cocktails in geometric glasses..
And it doesn't matter what winding
woodland path you trala along
because they always see you.
They've each got a monocle
made from the bottom of a coke bottle
they keep in their dandy
ironically patched waistcoat pockets
on the end of an obsessively polished
gold and gold chain.
It's better to give them a wink
and a wave or a double snap fist slap point
because they know that one.
It's their inside joke.
It's their in the know nod
to a time with the firefly woods
were shiny and each butterfly
was pink and red and in love.
Back in the flutterby days they used to say,
when everything was better.
Just agree and sneer with them.
Offer them a light
and look forlorn.
They'll think you belong there:
an oldtimer, in those woods next to
that refrigerator graveyard
where elephants fear to tread.
But you're not from there
even if deep down you wish you were
you'll never fit in.
A square peg in a slightly smaller square hole.
You didn't see the war of the daisies.
You didn't choose sides in
the battle for the afternoon clouds.
You were on your back with you girlfriend
pointing out which puffs looked like
bunnies, libraries, Houdini's lock pick.
So just pick up your basket
and continue on your stroll.
Be cordial but not friendly.
And when you reach the clearing
don't look back.
They won't be behind you.
They already left.
Eternity is waiting and the charge must begin.
Tomorrow's not going to destroy itself now is it?
Poetry by Rapscallion
Read 551 times
Written on 2009-02-27 at 05:19
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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