Belphegorically

First off, yes, I take full responsibility for forcing half a dozen people to watch crap movies and play Pokemon™ Master Trainer™ for seven hours straight. Do I regret it? Not at all. As much as my co-blogger Crucible Tongs claimed to have not enjoyed the amazing experience in his tiring rant yesterday, I think we all know that deep down he was very excited by my marathon attempt to catch em' all and that Alvin and the Chipmunks now has a special place in his heart. In fact, the whole situation is a lot like the movie. Though he, like the main character played by that guy from My Name is Earl, claims to resent my chipmunky presence and the fact that I constantly trash his house/sleeping pattens in hilarious slap-stick fashion, he knows deep down that without me and my tiny, falsetto compatriots his life would be a hollow shell and his song-writing career would go nowhere.

Well today, given the slightly experimental nature nature of this Blog, I'd like to post a poem I've written over the last couple of days. In my last post I coined a word, "Belphegorically", which I didn't actually explain. Because it seemed like a good attempt at the time, I started writing a poem to illustrate what it meant. I've worked on it a bit since then. Let me warn you, at risk of sounding boringly self effacing, that my poetry is mostly pretty crap and this still needs work. Any suggestions would be massively appreciated. Anyway, here goes:




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
BELPHEGORICALLY –adverb
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Our drooping eyes unblinking and our fingers twitching we slip to the depths of not feeling or thinking. Scarcity scarred us, now we’re scarcely alive as we lay enveloped in our chrysalis chairs and we stare with our pupae pupils into our crystal ball all full of the knowledge of good and evil. We are imprisoned by intrigue, enslaved by empowerment, willingly smothered in an electric haze as we gaze into the screen of our shining reflection and drown in the depths of imperfect perfection.

A lowly critter that has crawled from the dust i have plucked the apple from the shelf and now sit as a silk-spinning serpentine servant before it, itunes playing iphotos flashing ihands typing imind whirring iam juicing myself into this wisdom-core till my peeling skin is needed no more.

We are overripe we are spitting out the seeds we are rotting from the outside in we are riddled with worms we are growing no more, albedo for ever, ashes to diamonds more inert than before. Our cocoon has no escape. The imago is imaginary it will only be planned nothing is real in this promising land.

Belphegorically we move less each day as our limbs turn slack and our skin turns grey.

~

“Would you like fear with that?” the false-faced flunky screams at you across the filth-encrusted counter. Her finger-paint grin is plastered on like some crackwhore clown because she’s under threat of burning not to let you see her frown. You’ve ordered your Lotus Burger™ laden with the lot and an extra-large wheat-grass protein-powder laudanum-laced Letheshake™ for the go; so as to numb your mind with poison and subsequently forgo those painful, scolding embers of not forgetting to remember.

Now your stitched mouth is mumbling and your fat fingers are fumbling like mole rats for coins, the coppernickel tokens of your token attempts at doing something, anything, anything at all. They, and the shrieking, squalling chubby-cheeked usurpers yelping at your leg are all that you have and all that you’ll ever have. You lack Abel’s grace, you’re devoid of Cain’s style, you’re boring as Seth, yawning to death, begetting till forgotten with that half-deserted smile.

And you snatch your daily bread, you sieze the day, you sob at your world but it won’t go away. Carpe diem, a crap diet, a mediocre meal of agony and fries you down it like a craven, slobbering, rabies-riddled dog-beast and you whimper to yourself that your not going to die.

Belphegorically you guzzle as your gut begins to sag, your reconstituted life in a greasy paper bag.

~

Mrs Filbert has run out of things to not do. She glues her glasses to quiz shows on the turned-up tv until she cannot drag herself away, addicted like a jam-making junkie to the glaring banality injected hypodermically to her dehabilitated mind. She eats, or sighs, or cleans, or stares or makes appointments to cut her dish-scourer hair.

And though she harvests no joy in pickling in the vinegar of her impotence, and though her shivering hands are almost supple as when she was a girl, and though she still can think, and write, and dance, and walk and talk and laugh and sing she waits until she is all alone and the shrivelled flesh is hanging off her bones.

And when he comes, that white-coat man, with nothing in his eyes and a rose in his hand she’ll say ‘No, I’m not ready.”
And with a voice of infinite impatience the long-expected visitor will sigh and say
“Dear Mrs Filbert, you’ve done nothing for years.”
And she’ll take his thin arm, her face melting with tears


Belphegorically.



~