I'm going to poetry jail

 I'm off to join the convicts,

because I know I'm going to jail.

I know I promised myself and the world,

I wouldn't write poems about any friend,

but I have,

I just can't help myself,

so poetry jail will be my end.

I hope to make new friends in there,

someone new to write about.

I hope my words will make them sing and laugh,

and dance and jump about.

I hope I don't upset anyone,

I don't want to get thrown out.

Because where do you go after jail,

when you can no longer stay,

where do the fallen poets go,

when their words cause outrage and dismay.

Is there a dark and dreary dungeon,

where ostracised wordsmiths dwell?

A place to sit and mutter,

a room that smells like hell.

Even though my subjects were anonymous,

you could still guess their names,

I always new my verses were dicey,

but I still played that tricky, slippery game.

My editor tried to warn me,

but her words sailed straight past my ear,

"people can get upset,

so stop making fun of them with your words,

I'm warning you for the final time,

to please, please do beware."


Of course I bloody ignored her words,

I paid her warning little heed,

casting silly words around,

until they all caught up with me,

so now I'm going to bleed.

For finally I've written something,

and the person did not find it funny,

that I'd dramatized their misfortune

And even made some money.

"Well, that's what paparazzi do,"

I said in my defense,

"You hypocrites who laugh at other people,

from the safe side of your fence."


I'm being charged with sarcasm,

and also mirth and slander.

As well as trying to bribe the judge,

Who refused my generous back-hander.


So off I go to Poetry Prison.

I'm being locked up for a year,

they're denying me internet, pens and paper,.

for my entire time in there.

They're going to be bloody sorry,

when I finally get out,

because I'll hide behind a non-de plume

and use the internet to troll, and curse and laugh at,

all those stuffy fudgers that I missed out.






 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Mumma Bear & Redneck do a Roadie

Image
  I was going to Nelson and Golden Bay too, I was away for a week there  So I sent a message to you. "Hey Redneck, I'm doing a roadie I want you to come. Don't worry about money, I have plenty and some. (Well, not really that much, So when we sometimes do takeaways  perhaps we could go Dutch?!)  I booked you a ticket, for a ride on the plane, I'll meet you at the airport, you can't say no, you'd be insane. I've hired a comfy car, that will be taking us far, we'll go to Blenheim and Picton,' then down to Kaikoura! I'll show you the mountains,  the rivers and sea, hopefully whales, and the wildlife that runs free. Then over to Takaka and the beautiful Golden Bay, I'll show you all the places  where you're mum used to stay. All the homes and the houses, a commune or two, and even some campsites, where I slept beneath the moon. Then's it back to our cabin, in the bush, up a hill, nestled away, peacefully private and still. We'll go t
Read more

in the shadows of a cursed coalition

Image
I’ve been watching the news again on the terror-vision, the window of doom into my sitting room and I wonder if anywhere is sacred anymore.                                                 Do the sea lions know they are no longer protected?  that some fullah too fat to fish anymore is removing the protection from their lives, while children begin to starve on the playgrounds.                                                                                                  Who really cares? Shrugs a heartless coalition, as a couple of politicians turn their coats over on potholes, they’re never going to fix… and it’s time for their five-course lunch, that the taxpayers paid for. “Watch out kiwi and kakapo,” cries a bellbird, swinging from a brittle kowhai branch, as pine trees tagged for China fall around her home. “You’ll be next!” Raise your one-use cups of latte to a crumbling sky that doesn't know whether it's raining or crying for the death of   the seas it'sposed
Read more

My Inaugural Little Kitchen Soliloquy

Image
I remember the Post Office in Mangonui across from the store, beside the shore where we collected our mail, Cashed a cheque, bought a stamp stood outside in the morning sun enjoying a friendly chat,  about this, and also that. The telephone exchange nestled out the back, the place that linked the town as one,  by party line, one conversation at a time. Long short long, funny ring tones back then.   The Post Office was all business inside, socialising  outside before we wound our ways home, By foot, bike or  a car driven slowly,   round that windy, pretty harbour road. Where flame trees hung splendidly in red, throwing shade on our foot steps ,  protecting our head, as glorious flowers beckoned birds in for lunch, allowing nests to be built in their arms. Now I walk in your door, Post Office, like it’s 1904 precious years later, many incarnations of cafes and bakers, bars and meal makers, we have our own Little Kitchen, already and waiting t
Read more