Anthropomorphics

Having been struck and left outside
the violence of serious cartoons,
life is a sad animal
hunting. We know it’s mostly shopping,
for the great bull, mounting, has said so: his
expression, if anything, speaks packages
about it. True, his saliva
grows less cute, but Tom keeps
his appealing intent
even with sex, the symbolic,
and the raised head end still bleats
I praise, nonetheless.

poem by Chris Edwards
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People Of Earth

Whenever I discover what an idiot I’ve been,
I turn to television — “Oh screen of wonders, flick me
on and off like an appliance,” I implore it
and it answers back
and I cackle away in the aftermath
of its buckets of canned laughter.
I lie on my little raft wondering
whose abduction is this
anyway? “People of Earth, I have
no intention.” Damned alien, chronic
master-plan — part of some system. I try
to asphyxiate one last program, switch
to the contactees. Seems that in 1981 Debbie
divorced and went to live with her parents
@ 32,000 kilometres per hour
happy to show off,
push buttons, poke around
the house for a while, hatching her evil plot.
She spoke, when she talked at all, Phooey.
Most witnesses have the wit, but Debbie

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poem by Chris Edwards
Added by Poetry Lover
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