May 10: Ten Syllables, Strange Change, Stupidity Maintenance, and so on

The ten-syllable rhymed line’s seduction

Sometimes impairs my base will to function,

As I have lost myself inside the sound,

And I doubt my feet will now touch the ground,

At least not at this stanzaic junction.

 

What of real life’s strong-held malediction

For anyone who defies prediction

That words work better in strong prose’s mound—

The ten-syllable…?

 

I understand the modern reaction,

But I will issue no choked retraction

To satisfy assholes too tightly wound

To take word music wherever it’s found—

Yes, I say “fuck them” with satisfaction!

The ten-syllable!

 

 

 

Don’t get used to it. The best stuff changes.

What takes years’ planning, fate rearranges.

Enjoy a good moment—two if you dare:

Never forget that the world doesn’t care

For you or your goals. Its best estranges.

 

All throughout life, we will take our plunges

And get back up, scraping off the grunges

And other proof showing that we were there.

Don’t get used to it,

 

For upon our absence a plan hinges,

And we won’t be counted among the whinges.

We’ll carry on with will strong like a bear

And wield sharp weapons inside each nightmare

That on the daytime darkly impinges.

Don’t get used to it.

 

 

 

Famously facile, aptly maladroit,

We know somebody somewhere is stupid,

Send a drone to make sure, to reconnoit,

Find where everyone thrown for a loop hid.

 

Send out a message, two or three meanings,

Make quite sure none of them stands out too much—

With such a message people take beanings,

Hitting their heads for clear answers and such.

 

Stupendously super, hoorahed and hip,

They know they have little foibles to hide,

For each time their ratings go for a dip

They take extra shots of formaldehyde.

 

Yes, they know everything. Isn’t it grand?

Everything’s knowable now. Understand?

 

 

 

I want to tell all the secrets I know.

I want the secrets to be worth a show.

I want the hushed show to have millions go.

I want the millions to make secrets grow.

 

Secrets transform when they get left open.

Softer memory ends crestfallen,

And forces pull you under the ocean

And speak hard truths unmeant to be spoken.

 

With bigger secrets, more people hear you;

With bigger secrets, you’re a big to-do.

With bigger secrets, amazing shit flew;

With bigger secrets, your you-know-what grew!

 

I want to tell all the secrets I know.

They get you, you see, with the undertow.

 

 

 

Fair-minded people need to get it right:

They lost the battle, time to suck it tight.

Time to accept fairness has gone away;

Too bad if you choose to get sick today;

Time to accept they have turned out the light.

 

Do I exaggerate our current plight

When I say we’re screwed by whackos’ crazed might?

The screw drills deeper each day that they stay,

Fair-minded people.

 

We must evict the heartless parasite

Who knows nothing about how people fight

To breathe, to work, even to have a say,

Even to be sorts who care anyway,

Because of so much taken by the blight—

Fair-minded people.

 

 

 

I want to form an association:

Folks afflicted with dissociation

Can join with minimal hesitation

For it requires no congregation.

 

Indeed, we have enough of discussion

On our own, with our own repercussion

Sufficient for inner-head percussion

Worthy of a world-blurring concussion.

 

So what’s the point of associating

When we might not wish to be deviating

From our patterns geared to obviating

Unwanted turns, which are irritating?

 

Perhaps in the ether we’d discover

New exciting ways to help each other.

 

 

 

I’m a volatile personality.

I’m still working on what this means to me.

Up and down and through the fickle middle;

I’ve been on this ride since I was little.

It’s frustrating, and I know you agree.

 

What about the extra chances to see

Life in its grand, extreme variety?

My oh my, ain’t that one a big shit hill!

I’m a volatile personality.

 

I seem to have a greater destiny

Making up rhymes of fameless infamy

About the fuckers with whom I’d fiddle

Because my words more than their dicks diddle.

Doing that, do I cross a boundary?

I’m a volatile personality.

Talking to you is way more interesting than talking to myself. What do you think?