Valentine's Day poem
Would you be my Valentine?
Would you die for me?
Would you be my martyr
For me beheaded be?
Do you love me more than God?
Would you convert the wicked
Until you are put to death (for me!)
Of treason convicted?
Happy St. Valentine's Day.
(A half-tribute to the real St.Valentine, half-mockery of the misuse of his name.)
Faceless
I feel so processed.
Tossed around by the society, the education system, corrupt peers.
Assembled by endless courses, inspected and graded by government standardizing, then shipped off to my assigned assembly line.
I'm a product of society, a fabricated mind, tediously drilled, mechanically educated.
Then I am out into the consumer's world, to be used, consumed, drained, then dumped.
We are humans, a brand name, a resource, a tool, trash.
You yell with rage, I am not a product! I am a mind! Unprocessed, old fashion-style, pure, uncorrupt! Break off the shackles! Escape the assembly line!
But now your mind, so raw and unfinished, will perish in the wilderness of the world.
Suburbia Hell (in the summertime)
Squares of planned and plotted land,
Respectable houses and lawn sprinklers
Perfectly landscaped gardens, sporting no-nonsense, hardy bushes,
Lawnmowers drone an endless song...
Basketball nets on every driveway
Dogs and cats the common pet
Street hockey kids, always always street hockey kids
Casting annoyed looks at drivers who dare inturrupt.
Girls wearing fashions, hair butterflies and sarongs
Stepped off the face of the latest American magazine
So secure in their comforts, their freedom, their stylishness
Little knowing themselves as spawn of a cookie cutter.
Rip up the gardens, bulldoze the houses,
Squash the hockey nets with tanks, roll them through the town,
Add a hurricane to scatter the girls.
A sick notion. The ponderings of a twisted mind.
But indeed, subnormality is the soul of creativity.
(because nothing is more "normal" than a neat, happy suburb. Apologies, this was finished rather hastily as I got annoyed with it.)