2010 Poetry Challenge

National Poetry Month



Peter Willowdown

In this weary world I linger

In this weary world I linger,
sanctified and cicitrized
in my self-wrought cathedral of spiritual scars
and artificial arcana,
crucified in the stained-glass firmanent
between Venus and Mars,
more than an ape yet less than an angel,
torn between the hamburger and the bagel,
between Washington and Babel.
When did you last see your father
when did you last make love to your pretty bambino
can you tell the difference between tripe and baloney?
Look - here comes old St. Phoney playing his Nietzschean harmonica
and breaking heads with his billycub;
here comes sanctimonious Othello covered in the blood of Desdemona;
here comes St. Patrick selling lucky four-leaved clover...
On Easter Island somebody has hidden all the chocolate eggs,
thats why all the statues are frowning;
on the Christmas Islands it never snows
but at least my chiropractor never gets cold toes.
They say that Coleridge was buried in Venezuela,
they say Bram stoker is the real power behind the Pentagon;
I tried to perfect the pefect polygon out of cinnabar,
chitin, a cauliflower, a lemon meringue tart
and the complete works of Arthur Conan Doyle
but all I did was upset Mother
who made me scrub the kitchen twice
and then when it was all shiny and nice,
made me eat my dinner off it:
two lightly braised young octopii
and a veal and ham pie.
In this weary world I linger,
uncertain just how many fingers to raise
- I raised one once to an irate Welsh truccker
and nearly had my block knocked off.
Sometimes I think I'm going soft.

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