AUTONOMOUS
I just wrote this. It’s all true and my brain is seriously dead. This last couple of hours have sapped everything from me, leaving this as a present. It’s autonomous drivel. I advise against reading it.
This poem is the work
of an empty, autonomous
mind, that has applied for
over fifty jobs today
and now feels like the inside
of an endless depiction
of the Pope’s eye lid
being led to the oasis
by the half cooked ostrich
at noon. Followed
suitably by fifteen dwarves
and a packet of bubbles
left to go stale in the sand
of the elderly carousel
at the side of the back stage
which covers mud and hooded
rats. I am writing autonomously
because I thought feeling so empty
would make either a great or shit
poem, and so far, it’s shit.
My caring for this matter entertains
the failed notion of
a derelict baby sitter
left for the vultures by the vultures
in a computerized world of eggs,
sewn into the clouds by the lack
of talent which the majority
of talentless people possess
through untold stories of grace
and my lack of sense, probably,
now. It doesn’t matter as if
you’ve read this far, you’ve just
wasted almost half a minute,
of which you could have spent
fingering the person you were
thinking of,
slashing your wrists to the sound
of an army of merchants pestering
meerkats in the bath,
wanking
or writing your own nonsense.
This is where I’ll bow out,
but I actually enjoyed doing this.
I might do it again soon.
