It's the Beer Talking
'What on earth are you going to do?
What's your role in the human zoo?
Don't tell me that you haven't a clue!
Just what on earth are you going to do? '
'I'm going to grab the bull by the horns!
I'll play with the pieces, not the pawns!
I'm going to change the way people think
And I'm going to do it with pen and ink!
'My poems are going to be so good
That starving people won't need any food,
They'll drink and dine upon my verse
And call me Lord of the Universe!
'You don't believe I can do these things?
But surely you know that pigs have wings?
It's not that I'm an egotist,
I've been drinking all day and now I'm pissed! ! '
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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A Rather Smelly Sonnet
I once knew a fellow of popular fame,
Clarence Carruthers was the good man's name,
Intelligent, wealthy, a patron of arts
And producer, at times, of the smelliest farts.
Whether most virtuous or someone who'd sinned
It was best to be absent when Clarence broke wind, -
There was nothing quite like it in heaven or earth
Nor was it, dear jester, a subject of mirth..
Imagine the odour of old rotting fish
That one time had garnished a sumptuos dish
Or the reek of a sewer too foul for a rat,
When Clarence let rip it was far worse than that!
Be thankful, at least, the poor fellow has died.
(Though the stench in the graveyard canNOT be denied!)
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Advice to a Young Prophet
Eat not of the green bananas of tribulation
Nor harken unto the paranoid insinuations of moonlit potatoes,
But let thy mind rest rather on the white nightingales of Aberystwyth
And the fair promontories that lie hidden in Elfland.
Listen, I pray, to the sad songs of tuneful policemen
As they gather wild turnips from the fields of Arabia,
And remember that you too were born for a reason
And the altars within thee know not of desecration.
Do not fluff up the feathers of thy breast
Nor believe in thy pride that thou art worth more than a penny:
Blood runs in the rivers of Jerusalem
And a dark horror has smothered the tears of immortality.
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Beatnik Rant
Three cheers for Allen Ginsberg
Who wasn't afraid to have a w*nk!
I love him much more than T.S.Eliot
That clean-shaven man who worked in a bank!
I also like Jack Kerouac
And others of the Beat revolution -
No doubt they'd all have gotten the sack
If they'd worked in a respectable institution!
I've got no time for Robert Graves either
And the priests of Ultimate Inspiration,
Save us from these intellectual snobs
And their endless moralistic constipation!
It all depends if you want your verse
To be taught in schools for the improvement of fools -
Personally I can't think of anything worse,
So start writing NOW and breaking the rules! !
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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A Social Taboo
I'm troubled by a social taboo
That prevents me from showing my love to you.
I love your smile and angelic face
But if I acted - what a disgrace!
They'd be down on me like a ton of bricks
Because you're only a child of six.
What these sad morons don't realise
Is that I'm entranced by your innocent eyes,
It's purely aesthetic, not a matter of sex -
I understand hoe this might perplex
Some servant of God with his rigid belief,
But his witness to us is a message of grief!
I never grew up, I'm still just a child
And your virginal heart will remain undefiled.
The sad priest is sick and will go to Hell -
Here he comes mumbling and ringing his bell!
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Bill's Hard-On
When Bill was walking in Cupid's Garden
He suddenly got a tremendous hard-on,
He'd seen a lass with a naked breast
Who'd obviously taken off her vest.
She said to him 'I beg your pardon
It must be a shock to see me undressed! '
He said 'Don't worry, you haven't guessed,
But I was feeling quite depressed,
But now I see your sexy tit
I reckon I would like a bit,
So let's get quickly out of sight
And set the planets all alight! '
He claims that it went on all night
Until the sun rose warm and bright,
And in the early morning light
He shouted out 'THAT WAS ALRIGHT! '
Now it certainly makes his neighbours talk
When Bill decides to go for a walk! !
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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A Real Cool Guy
Excuse me, mate, but you go to far
Driving around in your flash new car
As if you were some kind of Rock 'n Roll star!
Who the hell do you think you are?
You're full of drugs and testosterone
And you simply can't leave the girls alone,
You're always chatting to them on the phone
And you boast you can make them cry and moan!
You like to act like you're a real, cool guy,
You laugh at women when they cry,
But things will alter by and by,
Did no one tell you you're gonna die?
You're gonna rot in some cold, damp grave
And lose all the love your mother gave,
No one to comfort you, no one to save;
Yes! Everyone's laughing at the way you behave! !
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Love's Sweet Sickness
It always fills me with surprise,
The way you control my thoughts and hypnotise
My heart, whatever little disguise
I care to wear, however nonchalant
I try to be. Can you see
That whenever I look into your eyes
I know I'll never be free?
You are my jailor, you have the keys!
Can love really be such a dreadful disease
That whoever contracts it always dies?
Oh, surely this is fantasy,
A poet's gilded lies!
And yet, indeed, you mean so much to me
That I really do not care
Anymore, you can do as you please,
I'm willing now to be your slave
From this day forward till I reach my grave,
And if I die
Of Love's sweet sickness
Then no-one will wonder why!
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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A Girl Called Kirsty
Kith and kin, kith and kin,
And yet your love runs cold and thin.
In the end
I wanted you to be my friend,
But you simply do not understand
That you're living in another land
Than this strange place I'm tortured in.
You don't begin
To comprehend
That without a loving, helping hand
I'll just come to a sticky end.
Your final sin
Was driving me right round the bend
When I was young and weak.
You were so strong
And now this song
Is another attempt to explain
The curious excesses of my pain.
Who can tell
If I speak in vain
[...] Read more
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Anthony and Cleopatra
A wrinkle poked his sodding alchemy
Bereft of reason and the truth of ships
But nothing pirouettes in blank sausages
As Antony kisses Cleopatra on the lips.
They went out late last night, clubbing in Alexandria
And Cleopatra was wearing her fishnet tights,
Antony wanted to get her somewhere quiet,
He didn't want to get involved in any fights.
He's got this paranoid fear of Caesar
Because Julius wants to rule the earth,
But perhaps if Cleopatra helps him
He'll show his enemies what he's really worth.
Past ruined palaces of fevered brow
The carved spinach of his twisted dreams
Erupts like ivory in trembling snow
And catches tigers in their early schemes.
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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