Sunday, 13 July 2014

Weeding The Moonscape Of My Back Garden

Weeding the moonscape of my back garden,
Truly, it's a big deal.
Weeding the moonscape of my back garden,
My nerves shredding:
The concrete weeds, I steal
myself for this task Herculean,
I've delayed, I admit, for cosmic eons.

Bravely, finally, I resolved and booked one week's annual leave -
To prepare, to recover,
From this task that may take up to two full-blooded man-hours!

I'm impelled to enquire,
Must I find the power
to take on the abysmal brat of flowers?
Fetch me a flask of sports energy drink,
Complex sugar, I think, my devotional shrink.

You see,
I write poetry, so must I also do things?
Must I really stand alone on that flat dune of grey,
Pockmarked with such monstrous green swaying?
The weeds, they are almost thirty centimetres, and grimly rising!
I stare at them from the window, I'm not really crying.
Wouldn't you rather I just wrote this poem?
How many fresh dead poets does the world need?
I'd like to be a living tragic poet, not one that weeds!
(That's too tragic, even for me).

And, look over there! See!
I might get bitten by that bumblebee!
And I sneeze like a banshee when near trees;
Sometimes three sneezed sneezes I issue near weeds.
Yes, banshees do sneeze.

Weeds are angry wannabe baby trees,
I'm feeling quite I'll already,
So ill, I've just spelt it I'll.
Now that's I'll,
Sorry, ill.
Where's my quill?
I need to scroll the interweb,
Order some pills -
Those ones,
Exported from the moon, made in Hy-Brasil;
Those especial potions you don't require an ignoring doctor to see,
I must have illegal anxiety.
I'm a poet, it's my job, silly!
And -
I. Don't. Do. Wrestling. Weeds.

Yet, here I stand on the precipice,
There they sway taunting me,
The emerald streaked posse of thorny triffid pisse.

Well, here goes -
One small step for man, maybe,
But one giant leap for a poet such as this..