PFC Lynch and Coke and Crisps.

Was I shocked and was I awed?
George W Bush demanded my delirious applause,
But this kiwi poet is a canny old bloke,
Here, half a mo’ Incredible Hulk -
I waited through your sugared Cola breaks -
Your crisps were over salty cakes -
And now I find your girl PFC Lynch,
Is nothing like ole Tarzan’s finch;
I demand a ‘back to basics’ better Jane,
That will give me back that nobler American Dream:
Or Rousseau Noble Savage that old Reuters,
Will report till all our eyes doth water:
Standing by her Global Man -
Whoops – here is Trixie from Texas! (cameras pan)
Of mostly technology and myriad implants,
Despising of sanity and Plunket pedants -
H Rider Haggard had never such a “She”:
Appetite insatiable – coloossal PMT,
She is obese New Mother of the Earth
And gives continuous birth,
To reckless GE creations and wars that God
Must wish She/He/Whatever had kept us all penniless sods.
Come back kiwi Sir Truby King, our babies need you again,
The country is terminal – we are hell-shocked brains.

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PFC Lynch is the American army girl soldier the army lied was a hero. Lynch said  “no way” and good on her.

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Weapons of mass digestion.

An arab mother with others stuck in a too too shallow bunker or cellar, with of course her children; they play little child games to while away the boring time spent out of the light.
I can write a clever sonnet, iambic pentameters and words on my computer. I can try for the right word which might, just might, stop the flight of rockets put to fly in the sky and blow these poor arab folk away.
But what if I cannot? And what if all the other verse written by good hearts and true miss their mark. This president does not like poetry – I know because he would arm his countrymen to even fight mother earth. You know all those bulldozers… No I cannot right now do iambic verse – all that trial and time consuming error – till a poem emerges that stuns in its brilliance, how absurd. How contrived. but there is a primal scream I feel and an impotent, well rage. Newspapers and radio and tv made it easy for the bad monkey to rule, be voted in. You know what I mean. What happened to The Noble Savage of Jean Jacques Rousseau? Well the knuckle- dragging right-wing editors long ago locked all that passionate poetry stuff away. So now too many are made mad from too many Star War movies. Every arab now enemy- a swarthy Darth Varder. Not a nice Top Gun all american boy like Tom Cruise. But Tom is Ok. But I hope when he does “The Muslim Solution” movie that he is kind to the dead. At cinema half-time they will sell weapons of mass destruction,- I mean junk food. Invented in Madison Avenue.
Sigh… In the future fit arab folk will be eating junk, like us, and getting obese and diabetic and dying before their time.
A nice co-opted Iraqi Oprah will be on Iraq television and smooth their dying pillows. They will not have poetry and they will be as fascist as we …
We will all be dying too soon and no media will print our anger. Silly eh?
But the Gross National Product graph will show a healthy profit. Well that’s good – must not stop it.
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Talk- back host in NZ actually crowed this:- “Nah I don’t allow any poetry ‘cos some stuff shoots past me like a cannonball before I can hit the dump button on the so and so!”
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