By Rori O’Keeffe
Copyright © 2016 by Rori O’Keeffe
Shakespir License Notes
Feel free to share these poems, provided they are unaltered, and with due notation of copyright and authorship.
This cog is wearing out,
But the machine goes on forever.
Was I a good cell in the body?
Would my statistics please those on high?
I wound myself up, churning out dollars
To enrich my betters – the ones that matter.
I assembled toasters, sofas, iron-grip glue,
I made dollars and threw them down canyons,
I put baubles on the economy,
And stood back in awe as wealth grew,
And towered over me in the castles of my betters.
I blew my nose and paid taxes to lighten
The burden for my betters;
I exhausted automobiles, ran water over tomatoes,
And delighted in the miracles of processed foods.
I confess that a tear rolls down my cheek,
Contemplating what comes next;
Two pennies lie beside me, ready
For me to be so spent;
I haven’t much more to say,
Save that I’ve always preferred the company of animals
Over people and their endless fantasy worlds.
Boiling water on their bottoms!
How I’ve always hated them.
Me, the loser of the family,
The spoiled, indolent cretin of a brother,
Not worthy of the slightest respect from
My older siblings.
You – who stomped on my heart,
And who yearned to see me destroyed -
I hope nothing comes of you but rotting.
You – who lived to torment me,
Drive me insane –
You came so very close to succeeding;
You, I hope you find a watery grave
In the deeps.
And you – you slimy maggot from a pig’s shit
Who molested me, ruined me,
Finished off my dignity -
I hope when you arrive in Hell,
Satan seats you beside your soul-mate Hitler.
I’m the youngest and the first to die;
I know all these years you’ve had a compact,
To protect each other and keep your stories straight.
My final torment at your hands is knowing
That your tales of me will always be your armour;
You will always be safe, as long as it was I,
Your disturbed little brother,
That brought the family’s name and reputation so low.
You’re all cretins to me.
What do dying people really think about when they see the end coming? Two poems here about people who felt they were badly treated in life. The first person is angry with the world, while the second harbours bitterness towards those who were close to him. Some profanity, ~320 words.