CONGLOMERATION
(or: The Grand Pathetic
Suite)

a) Bloody Racket

Uproarious rumpus!
Bloody racket!
And rumpus!

b) Your Silly Stare

Until the end is neigh, until the piggies fly,
until the boom and quake and mushroom
in the sky —
for no particular reward
I’ll prepare a sarcastic noose and cord,
and even when you dangle
—
I will make you feel ignored!

I’ll find you
just to turn my back upon your silly stare!
Yeah, I’ll find you and make every effort
to make you aware
how much I don’t care
(at all)!

Oh, you have been mislead!
Don’t give a toss if you’re alive or dead
because I need you like I need a bullet
through my head!
How ineptly you chide;
a caustic ball of bile, but you bowl it wide!
You wouldn’t hit an ass
’s arse with a banjo
if you tried!

d) The Different Tastes of Sick

You tell the days apart
by the different tastes of sick.
You lie awake in bed
and watch the dust grow thick.

A broken man, spineless to the end.
A broken man — he will never love again.

You tell the days apart
by the spiders on your plate
of something canned and cold you can’t
remember when you ate.

A broken man, pathetic to the bone.
A broken man – but he chose to be alone.

f) Life Is Tough (W hen You’re Me)

I’ve nothing left to say, but I say it anyway:
Life is tough when you’re me!

g) Saucy Tiara Woman!

Think you can have it all your way?
Think you’re some kind of queen?
Well, I say! Saucy tiara woman!

h) Another Pear of Ice

For the umpteenth bottle,
open like a flesh wound,
for the ice in humourous shapes and hues,
I feel all the more marooned.

And when life has done its very worst to shock me,
even my ice cubes seem to mock me,
singing:

«Just like your life, we’re cold and fruit-shaped!
We let you see what you most despise:
your reflection in another pear of ice. »

«Your life’s like us, it’s cold and fruit-shaped!
It’s like a soppy film, just like the one in which we’re draped.
Finding buoyancy in drink of vice,
we are your parody in ice cube guise.
We let you see what you most despise:
your reflection in another pear of ice.»

i) Con-girl Omen Ratio 1

Now, I can tell a rotten sort
and treat her to a practiced snort!
A charm? A hex? A jinx? Tut-tut!
I sigh and shrug and covet your coven not!

One foul gossip (the count’s precise)
per pernicketly painted petty pout.
Riddled with riddles, lousy with lies,
the blabber’s the blubber to insulate us out.

Now I’m aware, now I prepare!
I’ll give you naught but snort and sneer!
The omens are there, the omens are clear,
klaxons wail now, can’t you hear?
Con-girl omen ratio 1!

Now, I won’t be enticed again!
Well, once or twice, perchance, but then
I’ll play the puppet on wobbly knees,
but I can quit whenever I bloody well please!