I Can't Be Bothered To Come Up With a Coherent Theme or Overarching Narrative Blues.
I can't be bothered,
it seems today,
to come up with nothing
but noises hey hey!
At least I can make up,
A rhythm and rhyme,
You'd think I'd be happy,
But for just this one time,
I was aiming at composing in blank-verse.
Well, what do you know,
looks like I got loose,
of the rhythm in my head.
I'd keep hearing Bobby Dylan's voice,
Singin my words. Maybe there his words,
And I just think there mine.
And If I ever publish this drivel,
I'll have to pay him royalties for his time,
Well screw him and that, he won't see a dime.
I keep hearing Peter Cushing in my brain,
and the dripping of the tap,
And cock-roaches dancing down in my drain,
have they got tiny umbrellas, singing in the rain,
caused by the constant dripping in my drain.
I'd better turn the tap a bit so they won't get too wet,
If they all got washed away however, it's not as though I'd fret.
And still I keep trying, no
The Wicker WomanI dreamed of a cream skinned girl last night,
With silver hair like wood long dried.
She rode the wind over bleak, barren lands,
Like a leaf on the ocean-tide.
So I took her from her ever circling steed,
Like plucking a flower from a branch.
Yet when I held her soft warm form in my arms,
I saw a startling vision in a flash.
She was not the girl I thought she was,
But only a vaguely woman shaped weave.
Like birch-bark straps intermingled artfully,
All hollow inside as an empty case.
And when my vision finally cleared,
She stood enfolded in my embrace.
Warm and tender and yielding and near,
Her fairy face was fine and smiling.
My lust was hot and need was clear,
She shared my mood without beguiling.
And yet the vision I still recalled,
Of the woven basket woman.