A Not-So-Good Song

It’s dark
in
here:

The smoke-rings
are busily bowing away
from
my lips
like greyish daisy
petals,
plucked and
thrown
in a roundhouse
flourish of
dramatic
affect.

I suddenly want to
smack myself
for what I’ve
become.

It’s National Tattoo
Week here in good, old
Hogtown, Ontario,
and no one
here
is wearing a
shirt:
the nipples are
plentiful,
and they remind me
of
eyeballs
and secrets.

I’ve got so much
ironing to do
that the simple act of
doing it
hardly seems
worth the effort
nowadays,
especially when said
effort
is expressed
to me in terms
of
anthropogenic
carbon
emissions.

Yesterday,
I indignantly
stomped on the
polar-blue
linoleum floor
covering,
and
to this very day,
I remain
unsatisfactorily
convinced
about a personal
matter
which shall
remain
nameless.

Today,
I pulled the
third candle-to-
the-left on the
antique
candelabra in
Dad's study,
and
the secret
passageway
that Mom decorated
just called
me
cute.

Just now,
I imagined
myself some
white
sand beaches,
and maybe some
pirate gold,
and the next thing
I know,
white sand and
pirate gold
come shaking out
of my last
bottle
of Gold Bond
Medicated
Powder.

One time,
I found a note
inside of that
same magic bottle,
it said
something
about peace and quiet,
or something.

When I was younger,
I used to think
that clouds were God’s
maverick
inspiration
for
life-insurance
premiums.

Peter Mansbridge
is the voice
inside of
my head that
tells me
not the take
the pills
this
week.

Sometime in the
foreseeable
future,
squirrels go extinct,
and our streets
become overrun
by
monkeys:
then out of nowhere,
everyone gets a
little bit
sadder
on the inside.

It’s raining now:

The droplets
look a lot
like
anthills;

oh yeah,
and it’s dark in
here,

real dark.