Money
When Christians come to
preach at me,
I simply close the door.
Slowly I'm adjusting
From affluent to poor.
It's happy to have money.
It gives a little thrill.
The question is – tomorrow
Will I have it still?
A Poem
A poem is a flower
Behind a sheet of glass.
It's beautiful to look at,
But untouchable alas.
A Picture
There's no one here on earth
who thinks
My verse is worth a damn.
To my sister it's a hobby.
To him it's just a bore,
A bore I often talk about.
Just that and nothing more.
I will go on writing, try to
Keep it to myself.
As books come from the
printer,
Put them on the shelf.
Poesy and failure.
The feeling is intense.
It doesn't look successful,
And it doesn't make good
sense.
Keats' “La Belle Dame”
They ruined Junkets' poem
As surely as a knife
Stuck into a heart
Terminates a life.
When Keats revised “Belle
Dame”
The picture was completed.
They put back the things
Junkets had deleted.
They left it very silly,
Not as Junkets planned.
Pointless little poets,
Very underhand.
Karma
This perhaps is Karma.
She's the absence of all
joy.
I really must have been
A bastard as a boy!
Possibilities
I see three solutions
To your situation.
Only one will interfere
With your infinite vacation.
The easiest is Welfare.
There are fewer complications,
Which can be confirmed
By all of your relations.
Welfare is accepted.
You can freely flaunt it.
All you have to do
For money is just want it.
The second is the aid
That's given the disabled.
But that takes years to get,
And it isn't all it's fabled.
It barely pays enough
To fill a blind man's cup.
And then there are the symptoms
You have to conjure up.
And last there is the way
Only taken by a jerk
Who's honest. Comb your hair
And simply go to work.
I am very prolific, like Donizetti, Iris Murdoch, Noel Coward and Bach (to name some I know). But like god said to Stephen Sondheim when he got to heaven (is he dead now?) - "You were very prolific, Mr. Sondheim. That didn't mean you were worth a damn."
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