A.A.A. AArdvark Corp.
All I'm good for is a photo now.
A poetic postcard, pen in hand and thoughtful stare,
As the young and old pass and see a thinker.
I try and tinker, but thought to paper, I'm a stinker. Now a drinker and care.
I try to tell all stories,
But they've all dried up, except for reflections
On my own life and on those, that of it, gripe.
For their liking, they'll force their corrections.
One early morning past midnight,
(I had work in the hours later to attend)
He was banging on my apartment door.
My brother too asleep to defend,
I answered the door to a face
Distorted from familiar,
To a confused, drug infused, misused
Who grew in neighbouring streets, to mine similar.
He was bewildered as to why I answered the door.
I told him “Jackie don't liver here”.
He returned 4 hours later, lost.
Another girls name. Another addled stare.
He called me a future virgin back in primary school.
“Too fat to get a lay” he'd say.
He's too right. I might as well by now be the pope,
While his syphilis on the brain, betrays.
I had a wandering moment at Central Station
in a tunnel where expressions live or are exposed.
Amongst the busker's meaningful strums,
The madman's eyes aroused, arose.
An older version of someone I knew.
Green eyes dilated with stress, a facial hair mess,
Biting on his hands,
On a milk create I confess.
He was the boy whose style I cramped
By the fact I hung around.
I turned into his and all's amusement,
The but of jokes the sadist ground
With foot into the floor of my features,
Awkward as my anomaly to fashion.
Now I pass him and his more grimace than grim.
His sickness, his distortion his passion.
I wander further down the tunnel
to the exit into the rain
Where shelter finds an unfragrant vagrant
Once shallow, cruel and vain.
He looks a lot like an old pal.
One racist, sexist, homophobic. I'll explain.
He was abused by all he now persecutes
After they expressed their differences on his ignorant brain.
With the cold sores on his face,
As in youth, as plain as his vice.
His words once cruel, now fitting
To make a belligerent old man look hooked on ice.
He never managed to expand, this friend.
He always judge with his prejudice. Only few he could not fault.
Now old as the suburb that changed demographics,
He like the street meets feet felt time's assault.
Youth laughs loud independently.
Youth alone is it's own security.
To the well worn and weathered,
My work sees us benefit together, tethered.
As we age, those my age will see less,
Unless they are given to service.
To it I make a purpose.
In it, I find my purpose.
A poetic postcard, pen in hand and thoughtful stare,
As the young and old pass and see a thinker.
I try and tinker, but thought to paper, I'm a stinker. Now a drinker and care.
I try to tell all stories,
But they've all dried up, except for reflections
On my own life and on those, that of it, gripe.
For their liking, they'll force their corrections.
One early morning past midnight,
(I had work in the hours later to attend)
He was banging on my apartment door.
My brother too asleep to defend,
I answered the door to a face
Distorted from familiar,
To a confused, drug infused, misused
Who grew in neighbouring streets, to mine similar.
He was bewildered as to why I answered the door.
I told him “Jackie don't liver here”.
He returned 4 hours later, lost.
Another girls name. Another addled stare.
He called me a future virgin back in primary school.
“Too fat to get a lay” he'd say.
He's too right. I might as well by now be the pope,
While his syphilis on the brain, betrays.
I had a wandering moment at Central Station
in a tunnel where expressions live or are exposed.
Amongst the busker's meaningful strums,
The madman's eyes aroused, arose.
An older version of someone I knew.
Green eyes dilated with stress, a facial hair mess,
Biting on his hands,
On a milk create I confess.
He was the boy whose style I cramped
By the fact I hung around.
I turned into his and all's amusement,
The but of jokes the sadist ground
With foot into the floor of my features,
Awkward as my anomaly to fashion.
Now I pass him and his more grimace than grim.
His sickness, his distortion his passion.
I wander further down the tunnel
to the exit into the rain
Where shelter finds an unfragrant vagrant
Once shallow, cruel and vain.
He looks a lot like an old pal.
One racist, sexist, homophobic. I'll explain.
He was abused by all he now persecutes
After they expressed their differences on his ignorant brain.
With the cold sores on his face,
As in youth, as plain as his vice.
His words once cruel, now fitting
To make a belligerent old man look hooked on ice.
He never managed to expand, this friend.
He always judge with his prejudice. Only few he could not fault.
Now old as the suburb that changed demographics,
He like the street meets feet felt time's assault.
Youth laughs loud independently.
Youth alone is it's own security.
To the well worn and weathered,
My work sees us benefit together, tethered.
As we age, those my age will see less,
Unless they are given to service.
To it I make a purpose.
In it, I find my purpose.
