polymorphikos
Scrofulous Fig-Merchant
I am not a poet by any stretch, but I thought this actually had the vagaries of quality so I decided to throw myself on the mercy of the court and invited all strata of criticism from constructive to acidic mud-slinging. Say whatever you want about it, just tell me what needs fixing. Then I'll have a song and I can concentrate on learning an instrument.
I wrote this five minutes ago after my family ate dinner together whilst listening to Pink Floyd's Darkside of the Moon, and it's about the absolute revulsion and horror I feel whenever my Dad sings to a song, and how it is linked to silly little things in my past that sound much worse in poetry form. Thankyou in advance to anyone who reads it, because I really do appreciate what you all have to say. I just wish I was wiser so I could give worthy advice more often, but I'm not. Anyway, the song:
A Self-Study in Singing-Associated Negative Reactions.
I think I finally understand
The reason why I hate the band
Playing on the radio,
Whilst the man sings long and low.
Rising, falling,
Caterwauling,
Grating at my spine.
Teeth off-set
And anger mounting,
Can’t break away, yet
Dream of shouting.
Clouds roll in a living room,
Billious, they curl and mushroom.
Chimney stacks of one foot high
Claw their ways towards the sky.
And my mind is going, slowly creeping round the bend,
As the lyrics pour from that ill-mastered throat.
I think I’ll leave a bullet in my head, or knife in his.
Why do the memories bring the smell of dope and ash and piss?
I want to cut myself free;
Run away to see the city,
And the country on the way,
Through a clear and cloudless day.
Without the stenches mounting higher,
Listening to the withered cryer.
Music pumping like an organ
To tear flesh from my ears.
And AC/DC’s like a power jolt.
Meatloaf leaves me quiv’ring, and I know whom to give fault.
Thundering and leaving me in wretching paroxysms.
Why the f**k am I doomed to these muse-lent cataclysms?
Should I just get over it?
The trauma is right there,
But to deal with simple things
You must proceed with care.
Do I put a fist right through his throat, tell him the truth or run out screaming?
It’s seeming
As though I am doomed.
I’ll remember when all the clouds mushroomed.
I’ll remember when they stung my eyes.
I remember revulsion inherent in my deepest mental recesses, triggered by the sound.
Of the horror that his singing found.
And the cackling burns my brain,
The staccato refrain,
The machine gun of the larynx and the chime of the drinks.
Mother’s at the pub dear, she’ll be back at half past ten.
She’s left you dinner on the stove to tide you until then.
And the man with his cap on and a cylinder in hand,
Is pulsing to the rock-songs of some sick’ning eighties band.
With lack of need I writhe in the horror of it all,
The mocking, mundane s**t that causes me to fall.
And if I here “He’s just a freak,” I think I’ll go insane
From the isolated beliefs, and the refrains within my brain.
But why does he get in fights with all the boys at school,
And why’d you take a broom to him and why did he hit you?
And I think he’s needing counselling, miss, to help him cope with stress.
And sir, it’s the best for him to free all from duress.
He went to detention for not leaving the seat,
And he punched the one with the widest grin when he couldn’t keep his feet.
And sometimes he’s screaming with his head against the wall,
As he awaits the final climax of it all.
The thunder of his mind and the flicker of his brain.
Yes, miss and missus generic, your boy has gone insane.
I wrote this five minutes ago after my family ate dinner together whilst listening to Pink Floyd's Darkside of the Moon, and it's about the absolute revulsion and horror I feel whenever my Dad sings to a song, and how it is linked to silly little things in my past that sound much worse in poetry form. Thankyou in advance to anyone who reads it, because I really do appreciate what you all have to say. I just wish I was wiser so I could give worthy advice more often, but I'm not. Anyway, the song:
A Self-Study in Singing-Associated Negative Reactions.
I think I finally understand
The reason why I hate the band
Playing on the radio,
Whilst the man sings long and low.
Rising, falling,
Caterwauling,
Grating at my spine.
Teeth off-set
And anger mounting,
Can’t break away, yet
Dream of shouting.
Clouds roll in a living room,
Billious, they curl and mushroom.
Chimney stacks of one foot high
Claw their ways towards the sky.
And my mind is going, slowly creeping round the bend,
As the lyrics pour from that ill-mastered throat.
I think I’ll leave a bullet in my head, or knife in his.
Why do the memories bring the smell of dope and ash and piss?
I want to cut myself free;
Run away to see the city,
And the country on the way,
Through a clear and cloudless day.
Without the stenches mounting higher,
Listening to the withered cryer.
Music pumping like an organ
To tear flesh from my ears.
And AC/DC’s like a power jolt.
Meatloaf leaves me quiv’ring, and I know whom to give fault.
Thundering and leaving me in wretching paroxysms.
Why the f**k am I doomed to these muse-lent cataclysms?
Should I just get over it?
The trauma is right there,
But to deal with simple things
You must proceed with care.
Do I put a fist right through his throat, tell him the truth or run out screaming?
It’s seeming
As though I am doomed.
I’ll remember when all the clouds mushroomed.
I’ll remember when they stung my eyes.
I remember revulsion inherent in my deepest mental recesses, triggered by the sound.
Of the horror that his singing found.
And the cackling burns my brain,
The staccato refrain,
The machine gun of the larynx and the chime of the drinks.
Mother’s at the pub dear, she’ll be back at half past ten.
She’s left you dinner on the stove to tide you until then.
And the man with his cap on and a cylinder in hand,
Is pulsing to the rock-songs of some sick’ning eighties band.
With lack of need I writhe in the horror of it all,
The mocking, mundane s**t that causes me to fall.
And if I here “He’s just a freak,” I think I’ll go insane
From the isolated beliefs, and the refrains within my brain.
But why does he get in fights with all the boys at school,
And why’d you take a broom to him and why did he hit you?
And I think he’s needing counselling, miss, to help him cope with stress.
And sir, it’s the best for him to free all from duress.
He went to detention for not leaving the seat,
And he punched the one with the widest grin when he couldn’t keep his feet.
And sometimes he’s screaming with his head against the wall,
As he awaits the final climax of it all.
The thunder of his mind and the flicker of his brain.
Yes, miss and missus generic, your boy has gone insane.
