Earworm Again

I know you like it in my brain
but I would also like it in my brain
if you weren’t there as well
I mean
maybe if you were more than four bars long
we would have something to work with here
but no
you just repeat over and over
and over and over
and over and over
baby baby ooh
and it’s too bad
you don’t have a face I can punch
you insidious destroyer of tranquility



Porcupine of terror
why do you burrow into
the folds of my brain
and nest there
all day
every day
until I am ready
to stomp on your evil little head
with steel-toed boots?

No song deserves this
no brain deserves this
no brain deserves this song
damn song
I say

You are punching me in the cerebral cortex with music
and I cannot approve

Plus Humidity

Oh look
that’s not that bad
I’m sure it will be fine
and we’ll frolic in the sunshine
with puppies and porpoises

81% humidity
is surely not that big a deal
probably just a blip in the readings
so let’s get to that frolicking
and maybe some vigorous dancing

I don’t understand why I feel
as if someone has sucked
all the energy out of the world
with a straw made of steaming water

too hot
must melt
brain fried

hope lost
no puppies

help me


Headache of terror
why do you plague me?
do you scream salaciously through my brain
when I need to be doing things
that headaches do not help?
Silly headache.

Last night I listened
to two full episodes of The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
because I couldn’t look at anything
and I couldn’t think about anything
and I wasn’t tired
and the only thing my weeping brain could tolerate
was the muted sound of Arthur Dent
trying to stop his house from being demolished
on the day the Earth was destroyed
to make way for a hyperspace bypass.

I must have fallen asleep briefly
since I somehow missed the bit
with the Vogon poetry.

At any rate,
the point is that I probably need new glasses
but my prescription is in Etobicoke
and I am not.

Alack the day.

Empty Brain

The howling void
inside my head
is howling
and echoing
but mostly howling
with delicious ineptitude

I would like to punch
the void
with the fists of metaphor
and kick it
with the feet of synecdoche

But no
and lo
my feet are alone
in the wilderness of desire
and I cannot reach them
I can never reach them

Punish me
my feet
punish me
and at long last
be fulfilled


my impulse
not to write
this poem right now
is a rabid squirrel
making a love nest
inside my brain
and starting
a revolution in rural Ontario
pertaining to the promotion
of pancake batter for all
but not touching on
the empty wine glass
in my cellar

Fridays Are Boring

When I say Fridays are boring
you think I am crazy
but no
I am clever
for Fridays are not boring
and yet I say they are

My vastly superior brain
is full of sly reversals
and attempts to frustrate your desire
for the world to be safe
and predictable
and full of wonderful Fridays

I shall tell your that Mondays are exciting
and watch the light of hope
die in your eyes