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My mirror me stares back and sees the unknown
He lives in an alternate reality Timed perfectly But everything has changed Left is right Run is fight Like a scroll rolling closed from the wrong direction He starts old and goes through life getting younger More energetic Full of wonder Is it the same with a selfie? A third party in the cloud Where I doubt That humanity’s wings can last Mirror me just laughs So do I Our opposite selves separated by silence Mouths move but don’t speak Just apertures made the wrong way Not just my mirror self My body drifts into unconsciousness Where my gestures cease I hope he enjoys his body I’m loving growing old Gray haired face staring back Creaky joints that complain I have an excuse to move slowly Mirror me concedes our vanity as we continue to stare I promise I’ll remember you
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Deliver me from evil
I’ve got Prime Give me the right to turn away as jobs decay I need that next day! Shipped by slaves Over packaged items left on my secure front porch This paper is recycled So my guilt can be pulped and re-used Passed down to those without proper facilities I don’t want to think about where my item came from I’ve got Prime That’s OPP (Other People’s Problems) If they wanted a better life, they should have been better at life They should’ve subscribed to Prime It’s the first past the post Who sends letters these days anyway? Post office death can be pre office payday Long as I get my bonus The other’s shoulda got Prime It’s the best cut 1000% pure grass fed ex-rainforest convenience Delivered from who cares where to your plate Oh, is it wasteful not to consume the whole animals? Don’t worry I’ve got Prime It’s all white meat chicken breast White is pure don’t you know Brown boxes are easier to dispose of Especially when you’ve got Prime It’s a members only club where all you have to do is look the other way and pay Let them be evil for me I’m a good person The last poet continued to write as the world crumbled to dust
The last bombs had fallen long ago and the sun no longer shone Slow death and starvation had taken the bulk of the population The crops and plants failed What else to do but write No way to set this right No tomorrow is another day No Hollywood ending He didn’t know he was the last poet That when the ribbon of inspiration in him ceased The world would be a darker place He just wrote With no ambition nor illusion of an audience to see nor read He wrote what he felt He wrote cause he needed And he carried on writing until his skeleton hands lost the strength and his thin breathe ceased And the world Was left Quiet |
Douglas Karson
I love poetry. Archives
April 2021
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