I hope you don’t mind
If I don’t open doors
Or put you on a pedestal
Or sing songs to you
About how I’d die for you
Or demand that you be pliant
Or otherwise ornamental
That is not my brand of chivalry.
If you are caught in a tower
Or taken by a dragon
Or otherwise need rescuing
Either from perceived bandits
Or possibly from yourself
I’m afraid you’ll find me somewhat wanting
That’s not so much my chivalric bag either.
If you need a horse ridden though… I’m allergic
Tell ya what sugar-tits!
Here’s a sword, here’s a shield
I’ll go up into the tower and put on a dress
This time, you can save me.
This space, that space, they keep looking at me.
And I keep not writing anything.
I want to.
I have thoughts,
Things I want to say.
The longer I go without writing things down,
The harder it is to put things down.
And then it takes longer to put things down
And then it gets harder.
And the cycle continues.
Ands nothing gets out and nothing gets put down and one day we’ll talk about why there are never any people in my photographs…
I can talk about cars or listen to guys talk about sports
And I can smile politely when a horse race subject
Like politics or reality TV is brought up
I can even make comments when the subject of hot celebrities comes up
Whenever someone asks
“What route did you take to get here.”
I am immediately forced to announce.
“I’m sorry, I’m not middle aged, nor middle class enough to have this conversation!”
And I must leave.
Every once in a while
I find myself asking
What if it was really Bruce Lee
That died for our sins
Because that drinking game
Never actually ended
I have to take a shot
I’m struggling with a deeply theological poem.
It’s a poem about gods and their place in the universe
But not much rhymes with twatburger
So the poem is sort of going nowhere.
I have a plan, it’s a good plan, a near perfect plan.
There is just one TINY problem with the plan.
It won’t work.
No, don’t ask what part, it’s pretty much screwed from start to finish
Which I must admit, even for me, is something of a hindrance if I want the plan to go through.
I’ll work it out though.
Fancy has an alternate idea that she says is awesome.
I woud like to have high tea with The Queen.
If that’s not possible
I would like to have high tea with a queen.
Any queen really.
I wonder if someone will ask why I rank Drag higher than Beauty in that list.
Two sugars please.
Isambard Kingdom Brunel faked his own death so he would have more time for his true passion… engineering the perfect doughnut!
Every word I’ve ever told you is true.
Even the shit I made up.
It’s all true.
Isambard Kingdom Brunel MAKES it true.
Isambard Kingdom Brunel engineers the fuck out of problems.
The only thing greater than Isambard Kingdom Brunel, is Fancy.
Fancy runs this show bitches!
And don’t you forget it.
Hell has come
High water has come
Death, destruction, and the end of the world
And yet, I remain standing.
I am going to cook those fucking turduckens.
Nothing can stop this now.
I will keep calm and I will carry on.
I’ve dealt with pretty much everything in and around your borders
Dying relatives, new kittens, flooded houses, and more bullshit than I care to relate.
The Sick, The Elderly, the stupid and the strong
The good, the bad, the ugly and the adorable
I’ve dealt with a guy driving with the ghost of Adolph Hitler riding next to him.
I’ve dealt with a riveter who wants to fist someone up to the elbow.
And yet, here I stand.
My lights are still on.
As I said they would be.
I said you wouldn’t be able to crush my VEWPRF spirit
and you can’t.
I’ve got this bell, it rings.
I’ve got these candles, they chase away the dark
I’ve got this bloody-minded sense of determination, it starts to get a little bit scary after a while
My point is, you won’t sink this holiday.
You can go die in a fire 2009
You can go to hell
You can fuck right the fucking fuck off… fucker.
I would like it to be known that…
I listen to boring old music
On scratchy old records
I remember when there was no tv, we only had radio
And the movies were better when they were in black and white
We used to make our own fun when I was a boy
Everything was better when I was a kid
And that I am very, very, very old and out of touch
You may now all “Git offa my lahn!”
It’s quite possibly that only one of those statements is true. I’ll let you decide which one is the true one.