Poo Corner – Issue 31


He lived like a suicide

but, as luck would have it,

he was philosophically opposed to it,

so he was kept alive, logically.

Theoretical carpenter, he

chipped away, unskilled and dully determined

he carved an effigy of himself,

one at least he could recognise.

But for a lack of conviction, he

could have been a cold psycho-

path, or a Tory, hating himself some more

for lacking aspiration to live.

Now, near the end, cruelty and pity

whistle amongst the false viscera

working, toiling in books, still

to read himself into some kind of existence

beyond the clumsily functional.

At least he can, for the moment, fashion a smile

after all, he doesn’t yet have to turn on his lathe


A cynic’s hymn

Though they talk from the valley of dearth

I’ll tell my children that nothing’s perfect

we expect to be tenured to processed nullification

then tell our children that nothing’s perfect.

We bang on about happiness being a state of mind

then determine to tell our children that nothing’s perfect

We are told, by liars, that aspiration is all that’s holding us back

so we tell our children to aspire to nothing’s perfection

we know reality and its wretched bases

and teach our children that its nothingness is perfect

we accept our experience is defined by the lottery of dreadful accident

we dream that money should accommodate human values

then teach our children that money is human value and its nothing’s perfect

we promote the idea that compensation validates life

and tell ourselves that nothing’s perfect

we have commodified our hearts, minds and souls and free exchange

and insist that nothing’s perfect

we have faith in the obsessive production of perfect, right-first-time nothing because we know, absolutely,  nothing’s perfect.


I had a thought that made me cough

No, don’t scoff

I had a notion that made me sneeze

Don’t mock, please

then I imagined and it made me spew

Conceptually, I’m the same as you

then I had a great idea

I nearly died.

On reflection

it ain’t half bad

to feel a tad sad;

it is a sin

you haven’t gone

completely mad.

Words carry viruses

that make me ill;

funny thing is

I don’t want to shut up.


Without a muse

I’m left to amuse myself

Without imagination

I can’t laugh at anything

Without means

I cannot mean something

Without necessary skills

My narratives kill interest

Without wit

I cannot outwit a twit

Without what

I cannot outdo a twhat

Without understanding

I cannot stand under any window

Without good attributes

There can be not a tribute said of me

Without hope

I, abandoned to myself

Without a muse…


I went outside to deliberately be just anytime

with pockets full of air like sails.

I think I’ve inherited a love of outdoors:

not the must nearly die to feel like I’ve lived one;

But the ah, living is easy unencumbered, deep breaths of freedom one;

Nor the sponsored, without money this doesn’t mean anything one;

But the guilt-free, awed appreciation of nature one;

you know, the one that costs nothing to be kind.

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