(99% of editors become editors
because their writing deteriorates
as their 'ideas' of what's worth
publishing turns them into David
Mamet cliches with the last word.
Why their closest friends and peers
are afraid to tell them the truth?
Is why great writers have no hair.)
And I got a year for each of you:
On my first loveless birthday
My parents gave to me
A basket up the river for free.
On my second welfare birthday
My parents moved us around
From a flat to a squat downtown.
On my third toy less birthday
My parents bought for me a
Wheel-less car from a Salvation-less army.
On my fourth no heat Birthday
My parents thought it smart
That I should pan handle as an art.
On my fifth pitch black birthday
My parents offered me
A best friend that I never got to see.
On my sixth candle-less birthday
My parents surprised me with
A used wedding cake lacking width.
On my seventh unimmunized birthday
My parents, broken down
Left me at the Lion's club lost & found.
On my eighth word-less birthday
My parents let me say
"Are you motherfuckers going to sleep all day?"
On my ninth full time birthday
My parents let me sign
My time card in the unemployment line.
On my tenth dehydrated birthday
My parents got in a fight
Because, their whiskey bottle was gettin' light.
On my eleventh wish-less birthday
My parents let me know
How far a five-dollar whore would really go.
On my twelfth pet-less birthday
My parents broke the bank
Buying me a fish that wouldn't swim, it only sank.
On my thirteenth luckless birthday
My parents dumpster dove for me
An attached rabbit's foot soaked in its pee.
On my fourteenth peach fuzzed birthday
My parents traded me in for
A legless gypsy that nob dusted their floor.
On my fifteenth model-less birthday
My parents took me to
A park where we could all huff glue.
On my sixteenth car-less birthday
My parent's arranged
For me to meet the criminally deranged.
On my seventeenth sexless birthday
My parents stripped me down
To delouse my colonized pubic mound.
On my eighteenth, I'm free, birthday
My parents kicked me out
But since we had no house I went roundabout.
On my nineteenth flat-topped birthday
My parents enlisted me
So that I could peel me an education, militarily.
On my twentieth uniformed birthday
My parents urged me go
Kill Somalians like GI. Joe.
On my twenty first jail-celled birthday
My parents said, "We told you so"
And warned me to beware the soapy Afro.
On my twenty second convicted birthday
My parents made me cry
By giving me an iffy alibi.
On my twenty third loneliest birthday
My parents finally bought a home
But they only gave me a switchblade comb?
On my twenty fourth drugged birthday
My parents gave me an heirloom
My uncles' smack rig with his burnt spoon.
On my twenty fifth alcoholic birthday
My parents threw a party
Not for me, but for their dealer Marty.
On my twenty sixth heartless birthday
My parents let me in on a score
So I could do all the work, while they earned more.
On my twenty seventh unholiest birthday
My parents bought the farm
Just another reason to stick needles in my arm.
On my twenty eighth detoxing birthday
With my parents a year in the ground
I adopted the ugliest mutt at the city pound.
On my twenty ninth wizened birthday
A day not unlike this one
I feel better shoulder chipped, than with none.
Dedicated to anyone with the gall to allow
opinion to turn fact because, "they don't get it."
Get this... Editors 'edit' not talk about 'editing'.
And after a while you look at your parents
and life, and think? What the fuck am I waiting
for them to do again? Don't wait for anybody.
Make something happen, and wise up.
Now quit whining, and go face fuck a Badger.
Author notes
This is dedicated to my parents and editors...
What can I say? None of you can write. NANA NA NA Na.
Pthptttttttt. I just dropped my pants and did the boogaloo.
I CAN DO THE BOOGALOO!!!! Oh, and by the way?
I just got my first manuscript published today. (maybe)
BUT I'M PRETTY SURE!!!! And I owe it all to you, Mom, dad,
Editors? Gues what? The time has come for me to stick up
my middle finger, and smugly walk away. Unless, I don't
get published, again, then umm, JUST kidding?
Written January 19th, 2004
In a list
A contest entry
- Thanks to poems OR JUST SOEMTHING FUNNY by poet73.
350 points, ended September 29, 2004, 9 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
What did you think
Comments
1 - 11 of 11
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*laughs*
i have to say, you birthdays give me more of a reason to hate birthdays...im not overly fond of my own...i dread, and loathe the day mine rolls around..i hate it...with a passion.
good thing about the dog though.
Nyx... -
Ain't the fickle finger of fate great when you can turn it around? If I ever figure out how that measuring stick is figured out, I'll be sailing, since I was destined [ so they said ] to never amount to much... here's to grinning until it hurts...
~~whims -
So sometimes pain is like the flame that burns inside, the flame that keeps the acid-reflux Mickey Mouse tie of the CEO of Belonging Salvation, Inc. smouldering... the pilot light that jumpstarts the furnace of heatlightartsmart that ties you to the doomed creative that litter the planet like so many shiny bits of broken glass... bunch of crap...
You are wonderful.
-
What's really sad is that I know people who have gone through aspects of this and are still struggling to find peace. Intense and painful stuff you pen, a strong poem.
~ Wendy -
I hope you receive the praise and recognition you deserve!
-
fuck soon everyone will be here..you popular fucking bastard (now if they start buying cds...then i'll be happier)..you are like becoming an urban fucking all poetry legend now aren't you...god damn mo-fo..(isn't that the way comment on vulgar machismo?) i needed to do that...thanks...
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I clicked on this poem now I feel obliged to comment. So what should I say? What about - "great work, Horus, you got my eyes glued to the screen, once more!"? True, but sounds a bit lame I think. Hey, what is this, why do I always try to say clever things when I comment on this guy's poetry? Let me be honest (which is not necesarily clever) about how I feel - I hate "anger poetry" but I must admit - I like this "take no nonsense shoot from the hip" kind of attitude about it. So I suppose I kinda like it! (this doesn't sound right, does it? Anyway, I warned you - it ain't a clever comment!)
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hehe was fantastic, and you are right the only person who can make anything happen is yourself, as ive since discovered of being on my own, its fun, and has challenges, but tahts the shit that makes you keep movin, to see whats around the corner, i recently submitted a book for publication well see, and if not, fuck em, theyres other people.. anyways, nice write, rhymes seemed forced in some spots, but fuck it, was a fun read
peace , Eoj -
I have to say this was the first time I was ever grateful for scrolling to read. I wouldn't have been able to bear it if I could have looked down the page to see how long this all continued. Surely, at 18, I thought, he's going to escape. But now that you have, there is certainly no stopping you. Blaze on, dear maverick!
A great big congrats on your good news... hope its not near your birthday though. -
Birthday Greetings
Yah, I inadvetently hit "ENTER" which electronically inscribed my opening statements before I had a chance to continue my comment. Some days your fingers betray you....but don't worry, I shall punish each and every one.
This is a lovely birthday song, not unlike what we used to sing down on the farm, but I gotta admit I'm glad you're not, like, 60 or something because lots of folks can't read that far (I think they have a syndrome name for it, but I can't be bothered to remember that now....I'm rolling). I am grateful for your recollections in case I should ever find myself a parent and be wandering the vast TOYS-R-US aisles searching for a unique gift -- no longer do I need to consider some temporary piece of plastic and batteries when I can give the gift of life-long scars. Had my parents known this, they could be living in moderate wealth somewhere in Mexico instead of back on the hard-scrabble farm...and I could be cranking out angst instead of commenting on it.
One question though -- if all great writers have no hair, why is it that your photograph would indicate a hirsute head? Is this a wig? Just frenzied musings ... but I think I could interest the Enquirer....or at least the Weekly World News.
I like the last stanza -- hope springs eternal. Nice write. -
Yah, you can do the boogaloo, but if you painted your buttocks red, you could do the baboon boogaloo which is highly esteemed in certain parts of Africa WHERE THERE ARE NO LIVE EDITORS.
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