Thursday, April 19, 2007

THE KINGDOM OF PANIC


every breath of King Panic
is a giggle
his faLSETTO laughter deafens
his jokes
plague the polite
the agreeable
he's so funny
we're afraid we'll choke chortling
our paper legs
will get wet
and soggy

microbes will thrive
to our ultimate dis-ease

the Duchy of Panic
is a chemical soup
we're worried
we can't afford
to know the contents
how many toxic mililitres
float the future
doom

panic cakes for breakfast
panic aches and sore sages
panic aches pour blood
in each successive cereal bowl

someone will kill us
if we udder a truth
we might as well cheat
Phobos will catch us all

Princess Panic hears
she's got gigantic ears
hears every phoneme
transmits your weaknesses
broadcasts your fearsevery black black cormorant
every twittering nuthatch
knows all about you
they've got an eye on you
on all your feathers
every mote of smut
they've heard it all
they'll never tell you nothing
you lack the need to know
no wonder you worry

the leper cons
stole the children
left changelings
in their cribs
we'll never feed them
they won't stop hungering
no volume control
on the shrieking
in the groceteria
you're not eating
all your minimum daily
preservatives
hundreds of tiny shriekers
at the ice cream freezer
thousands of starving babes
howl from the solar bar b q
no meat on their bones
eyeballs glazed with larva
maggot hatching telecasts
eat our brain no cure for tv

Prince Panic can't go
fast enough
he'll never get there
lickety split he's gone
and missed it again
hasn't he always
mist out on kisses
no cure for the gas pedal

panic cake panic ache
fakers man
fake me a snakethat swallows your tan

nobody talks
nobody wants an appointment
with the Secretary of Panic
they don't fax
they don't call
they don't whisper
in the hall
they're all taking courses
through their modem
Basic Pill
Advanced Conversational Pill
Pills With Windows
The Prescription of the Month
Club
doesn't send you time
doesn't give you life
doesn't hand you home and garden
or health
millions line up
join Anomie Unanimous

I'M GOING STEADY WITH MY DRUGGIST
tops the pop charts
everybody's scalping tickets
out front of the stadium
the sold out workshop's
going to help everybody
Find Your Roots
In The Medicine Cabinet
entire libraries are replaced
by Beakers of Solutions
The President
hires a full time pharmacist

wash your hands
wash your hands
you'll catch it
you'll pass it to your kids
phenobarbitol leaking
into mother's milk
which burger has the valium
they all have tetracycline
panic aches panic aches
garbage can
piled full of hypodermics
contagion filled condoms
attics full of opium
basements full of cash
sperm in the freezer
blood in the bank

one minute you're cured
the next you're driving
the tank
your neighbour's bombed
and so are you
finish them off
and swallow a blue
don't take a yellow
if you're feeling mellow
face against the screen
ingest a tiny green
arise from the dead
pop three or four red

sick of geting better yet
how nice people treat you
when you're sick
everyone else is sick
don't get left out
buy our purple pill
why should you be deprived
feel as sick as you like
pay now and grimace tomorrow
save on food
take your dosage
in your lunch box

fogive me for injecting
this lukewarm sobriety
let's hope it's not contagious

no Canadian known's
found a cure for the poem

No comments:

cohen

cohen
the sweetest little song

st.ink

st.ink
his heart this big


Hornby Island by Goh Poh Seng (for Billy Little, who shared loved spots and fond friends)

Here on the headland by Downe's Point we case dreams to rise synchronous with eagles and gulls, all make-believe, egocentric, near to fanatical, else aim true to roam deep with Leviathan in the ocean's mind, free from perplexities and profundities such as bind the scheduled self Here is the arbutus grove whose trunks and branches tighten like nerves, twisted witnesses, victims of shapely winds which blow in always unseen, sweet from the south or coming cold from the north, from every direction the prevailing force of nature Wish I could emulate the arbutus slough off my thin skin as easily as these natives trees their bark from abrasion, disdain or design, unveiling the bare beauty of strong, hard wood beneath Over on Fossil Bay the rot of herring roe strewn amongst broken clam shells, dead crabs on dirty grey sand, exposed bedrock, thickened the morning air, but gave no cause for bereavement: these millions of botched birthings! And none also for the Salish, no open lamentation for a race almost obliterated without trace from their native habitat save a few totems, some evidences of middens, a score of petroglyphs of their guardian spirits carved a thousand years ago on smooth flat rock by the shore, of killer whales, Leviathans again, to guide their hunts, the destiny of their tribe. Having retraced them gently with finger tips, they now guide mine.

Halo by Patrick Herron (for Billy Little)

half of love plus half of half is halo and I don't believe in angels, no.