Only Get Bitter

The thirties were the twenties,
(flappers got depression),
viewed from a different store.
The forties squeezed the fifties:
(war turned rock'n'roll),
rebel shouts cut short.
The sixties fucked the seventies,
(flowers plucked by heels),
till they both got caught.
(Then bought what they were told).
The nineties never happened;
(the nineties, the twenty-first),
new century held at bay,
waiting for the sign that means,
(still waiting),
the eighties died today.

Recycling.

The surprised oh, blank eye,
the listening ear.
Brown, green, clear.
They seemed to want more.

I gave: my empty spectacles;
an innocent, passing, uncrisp packet;
my already second-hand jacket;
a worried look.

Still the holes were open.
I chucked in my sandals,
trousers, T-shirt, underscandals.
That should keep the third world warm.

Then, I threw: my corneas,
(I'd used a tin lid
so this stung a bit),
kidneys, liver and heart.

Then, I donated a few ideas.
Nothing new. Well, we don't invent.
Not really, just re-present.
I gave my empty spectacles.

It was hard to choose,
but I finally climbed inside 'clear'.
There was a kind of camaraderie there;
waiting, to be recycled.

^

Biography

After failing to be a guitarist, (lack of effort), a painter, (lack of talent), and to have a career, (complete lack of ambition) - it was time to try writing! Started a Creative Writing class in September 1998 and was hooked. Novels became screenplays became short stories until I eventually, (reluctantly), tried a poem in November 1999. Liked it, tried another .... and now I can't stop. Have just had poems accepted by Envoi and Iota, (and here of course). Successful or not, I've at last found what I do. Thank goodness. If you want to contact me to discuss poetry or, (better), chocolate please do at: iankaren@btinternet.com