Møth et Lämp

Simple creatures
Flock about like ravens, vultures
No, like moths around a lamp
Not knowing what they flock about for
But simply blinded by the light
Pursuing goals embedded in their genes
A stream of unexpected input
Leads to an error in the function
Whose immaterial rewards
Result in anger and exhaustion
The lamp that never reached can be
Melts dreams and smolders down their wings
Forever

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How should I be a mother

A Merlot bottle in one hand—
A baby in another
With wine I seek to comprehend:
How should I be a mother?

I didn’t study for this job
Have no qualification
And yet one day this fatty blob
Squirmed out in elation

A smoke to calm the poor child
Seems like a good idea
A puzzle game left it beguiled—
I bought it from IKEA

What make-up do all babies use?
Do they like leek or radish?
I’d ask my toddler what it’d choose
But I fear it speaks Spanish

And when they grow up—oh my god!
They end up like their parent
I guess that since I am so odd
My failure is inherent

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Mah beer

When I face a bunch of problems
When the future’s not so clear
There’s a simple, great solution:
I just grab a beer!

When my life becomes a burden
When I feel like death is near
Got an easy resolution:
I just grab a beer!

Facing difficult decisions
I salute them with a sneer:
I don’t draw any conclusions,
I just grab a beer!

To hell with my responsablities!
To hell with peopel i hold dear!
To hell with politics and revalutions,
Jus’ lemme drink mah beer…

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Isn’t it weird how
It’s the tough parts of our lives that shape us
And not the good ones?

I won’t say tough and good are antonyms
But once we reach a point of satisfaction
We are then stagnant
And mouldy like a rock
That doesn’t roll

There’s something wrong with how
Good times are always followed by bad
Driven by sloth and arrogance
We grow accustomed to our meretricious lifestyle
Far too quickly

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11 Bustle Street on Writer’s Block

You might not care less, but I have moved.
My new address:
down in the Oversaturation Valley
on other end of Run-Down Alley
located near the Humdrum Avenue
beside the Sleepy Park—
11 Bustle Street on Writer’s Block.

I know, it’s quite a shock.
Feel free to soon stop by and watch
my favourite new movie:
The Writers of the Lost Spark;
or hear the album Machine Dead
by Deep, Deep Hurdle—
and by a glass of whiskey dive
into René Discardes and Immanuel Can’t.

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The Dark Side of the Rainbow

I walked across the street at night
And heavy was the rain
The distant sounds of motor cars
The whistle of a train…
Some phosphorous illuminance
Behind me made the rain glow
I turned around and then I saw
The dark side of the rainbow

And as it ghastly shone on me
With its inverted colours
I was prepared to believe
In its outlandish powers
The different hues of darkish pink
Engendered foul temptations
Subdued me with their purple ink
And brought me weird sensations

The Wobniar, I called its name
And it responded gently
“Now, do not be afraid, my child
Embrace, do not resent me”
Aghast, I escaped the fiery sight
And woke to a great wonder
A lightning rolled across the sky;
The clouds had split asunder

I opened haltingly my eyes
And there, in all her beauty—
The rainbow, how I once her knew
Now all dressed up for duty
So courteous, graceful, yet aloof;
Her colours safe and frequent
The gloomy pigments undisclosed
Were to remain our secret

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Original photo by Alan Heardman.

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My hobby

I kill people for fun
What else is there to say
Everybody has hobbies
So why not this one?
If you ask me why I do it
There is no real reason

Many killers get caught
Go to prison
Behind, they leave trails
They all have something
For what they have fought
But I, I have nothing
No agenda, no feelings
That restrain or restrict me
Or expose or reveal me
No desire to be found
Or attain recognition

Lately, I have been worried
About my mental health
So I went to a therapy session
I have a job I don’t like
And I do not need wealth
So maybe one day
I’ll turn my hobby
Into profession

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