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On Being Non-U
Ummmm, I really wanna be popular
I wanna run with the boys run with the gals
I wanna love the old folk and
‘ave ‘em love me!
I wanna hoist with the worst
Agree with the best.
I wanna do as they say
I just wanna agree.
I got fair weather friends
Follow the trends, sorta
Be nice they all say, smiling like clowns
Telling me just wot I oughta
Through good time and worse
Mothers do die. Ya
cannot rely
Black
tie tears march behind hearse
Cry with me and just let it be.
When I try to be nice
They put me on ice.
They see through my guile
They declare just a pile.
So much I wan ya accept me
Accept me no matter my wile.
To say what I thinq oudda bounds
Laugh at my limp wristed jokes
Aren’t we all meant to be free.
Resort City
Waddja know? I’m a word processor poet. It comes out both
ends.
And I hunger for adult
conversation. I don’t watch the
telly. Neither do I booze. But I’m just stuck: irrevocably in resort
city blues.
Luxury. That’s all there is, sometimes a Caribbean cruise. Talking past
each other, how can I lose?
They’re building ‘em all
over: thirty story galleons, beautiful
people, posh cars.
What’s all this about growth
control puleeeze. Sunny dispositions heritage wannabees.
Yesterday’s cold spaghetti. Pretty streets, pretty plazas pretty cool.
Whooo-ah thirty stories up they’re watching photo-tragic, plasmodia big-screen
telly, with Jacuzzi and hegemonic s- u-veeeez.
Your own private cabin with
changing seas.
Exclusion seems to be the order
of the day.
You wont be excluded? You will!
So will I!
They’re building these stumps
sticking-up and boutique groceries: quart of milk six bucks a liter. Mono luxury. Are you a realtor? Broker maybe? That’s it. Wanna simple
home? No way. They’re building these
things for the creator.
Where the hell do they work? And mortgage? That they cannot shirk.
Entrepreneur euphemistic hand out
dole: it’s your beer! I dunno I’ve been watching this, no honour role. Look out. If you’re still here! .
Believe me though we’re in retreat.
Reflecting back from the broken
mirror. I’m beat.
But I’m still stuck in resort
city blues!
Thank you to Trevor
Boddyfor the phrase: Resort City
Roger Kemble
is a poet, artist, and a architect/Planner. He resides in Nanaimo, BC.
Email: Roger Kemble
Roger Kemble'sWeb Site
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