fly’s open peeks through a chink inside a bedroom is unfolded a tower rooftree a forest history in annual rings we revolve around doubt it makes you strong a stone in a pond the work of a god under a dense foliage we have all winter to be naked when it freezes and it frosts it is too quiet to be ashamed.
traces of a blessing fan out waste water sewers lay low lovers musty shags in a caravan in a log cabin a perspiring ski instructor little backroom or broom closet lawyer with a preference for anal and all the way little sweetsweatsorrows a trail of virgin salt crystals a sea of beauty long gone has it’s price the humming of the scratches, it completely livens you up
desert rose, brittle you prance and glance you’re invulnerable may any one by accident crush you you’ll slip through fingers like sand, you’ll lead astray oh hold me leave me let me join you inflect you mortarmartyr me with all your feet standing ground refusing to lie down keeping you up right dividing the earth in balance keeping things in the dark staring looking up to the sky sticking heads in the sand you don’t want to see what’s on the other side
Intro: I wrote this poem after hearing a pretty well-known actress telling a pretty well-known interviewer on television: ‘I’m really getting into the internet lately. I just wish it were more organised.’
If I ran the internet
If I controlled the internet? You could auction your broken heart on Ebay Take the money, go to Amazon, Buy a phonebook for a country you’ve never been to Call folks at random until you find someone who flirts really well in a foreign language
If I were in charge of the internet You could Mapquest your lover’s moodswings Hang left at cranky Right at preoccupied U turn on silent treatment All the way back to tongue kissing and good lovin’ You could navigate and understand every emotional intersection Some days I’m as shallow as a backing pan But I still stretch miles in all directions
If I own the internet Napster Monster and Friendster-dot-com would be one big website That way you could listen to cool music while you pretend to look for a job and you’re really just chatting with your palls,
Heck if I ran the web You could email dead people They would not email you back But you’d get an automated reply Their name in your inbox It’s all you wanted anyway And a message saying: ‘Hey, it’s me. I miss you.’ Listen you’ll see, being dead is dandy.
Now you go back to raising kids And waging peace And craving candy
If I designed the internet Childhood-dot-com would be a loop Of a boy In an orchard With a ski pole for a sword Trashcan lid for a shield, shouting ‘I am the emperor of oranges’ ‘I am the emperor of oranges’ ‘I am the emperor of oranges’ Now follow me OK
Grandma-dot-com would be a recipe for biscuits and spit bath instructions 1-2-3 That links with hot-diggity-dog-dot-com, that is my grandfather They take you to gruff-ex-cop-on-his-fourth-marriage-dot-dad He forms an attachment to kind-a-ditsy-but-still-sends-ginger-snatch-for-Christmas-dot-mom who Downloads the boy in the orchard, the emperor of oranges who grows up to be
Me, The guy who usually goes too far, so
If I were the emperor of the internet I guess I’d still be mortal, huh? But at that point I would probably already have The lowest possible mortgage and the most enlarged possible penis, so I would outlaw spam on my first day in office I wouldn’t need it. I’d be like some kind of internet genius. And me, I’d like to upgrade to deity and maybe Just like that
(p-o-p)
I’d go wireless.
Huh.
Maybe google would hire this So I could zip through your servers and firewalls like a virus Until the worldwideweb is as wise as wild and as organised As I think a modern day miracle-slash-oracle can get, but Oooooooooo, you wanna bet just how whack and un-p.c. your Mac or PC's gonna be when I'm rockin' hot-shit-hotshot-God-dot-net?
I guess it’s just like life
It’s not a question of if you can Its, ‘Do ya?’ We can interfere with the interface We can make you god hallelujah the national anthem of cyberspace every lucky time we logon You don’t say a prayer You don’t write a song You don’t chant an ooooohm
You send one blessed email to Whoever you’re thinking of At Dadeladatatatatatatadadeladedadeladedatatam-dot-com
