Strung out
Sometimes I feel like I'm a washing line
with one end of me attached to an erect metal pole
and the other wound and knotted around an old garden tree
my underwear dangling and fluttering for all the world to see
And atop the aforementioned erect metal pole
perch a merry scrattle of productivity gods
voracious little devils
greedy beaks wide open to the air
Feed us our daily busyness
Feed us our weekly success
Feed us with constantly unrealistic and unachievable work loads
and lead us not into unproductive idleness
Feed us with Escheresque tail-chasing
Feed us with never enough
Feed us with the tautness of your trapezius
the perplexity of your solar plexus
and the pounding temples of your mind
Feed us with endless pages of
tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tick tick tick never completely-ticked boxes
Thus do the cackling gods of doing tug upon my washing line
like a hoard of randy Morse code operators on speed
And at the other end of the garden, wrapped around the aforementioned old garden tree
lounge an oozle of existential goddesses
sexy little devils
armpits wide open to the breeze
Come, laze with us
loiter, linger, lie
dilly dally your willy-nilly and watch the clouds go by
feed us on éclairs of unearned bliss
feed us on the royal jelly or your resolve
and the sweet treacle of your brain
and the languorous longings of your honeyed groin
feed us with the sacred mantra of indolent Nirvana:
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmañana mañana mañana
Thus do the siren goddesses of being strum upon my washing line
like a orchard of fertile double bassists on opium
And I find, in this back garden of my soul
that if I run too much with the must dos
then the unbusy bees sting my body
but if I hang out too much with the let it bees
then the doers they do me in
(sometimes I feel like a bewildered child
caught in an ancient custody battle)
But on a good, mortal washing day
when I manage to hang out my washing
with a reasonable rhythm of
do
be
do
be
do be do be do
then these clothes peg deities allow the sun to shine
and sometimes even harmonise on that well-hung washing line
allowing me to ease into bed at night
with a well-laundered satisfaction
and enough clean, dry underwear
to see me through the approaching storms
Sometimes I feel like I'm a washing line
with one end of me attached to an erect metal pole
and the other wound and knotted around an old garden tree
my underwear dangling and fluttering for all the world to see
And atop the aforementioned erect metal pole
perch a merry scrattle of productivity gods
voracious little devils
greedy beaks wide open to the air
Feed us our daily busyness
Feed us our weekly success
Feed us with constantly unrealistic and unachievable work loads
and lead us not into unproductive idleness
Feed us with Escheresque tail-chasing
Feed us with never enough
Feed us with the tautness of your trapezius
the perplexity of your solar plexus
and the pounding temples of your mind
Feed us with endless pages of
tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tick tick tick never completely-ticked boxes
Thus do the cackling gods of doing tug upon my washing line
like a hoard of randy Morse code operators on speed
And at the other end of the garden, wrapped around the aforementioned old garden tree
lounge an oozle of existential goddesses
sexy little devils
armpits wide open to the breeze
Come, laze with us
loiter, linger, lie
dilly dally your willy-nilly and watch the clouds go by
feed us on éclairs of unearned bliss
feed us on the royal jelly or your resolve
and the sweet treacle of your brain
and the languorous longings of your honeyed groin
feed us with the sacred mantra of indolent Nirvana:
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmañana mañana mañana
Thus do the siren goddesses of being strum upon my washing line
like a orchard of fertile double bassists on opium
And I find, in this back garden of my soul
that if I run too much with the must dos
then the unbusy bees sting my body
but if I hang out too much with the let it bees
then the doers they do me in
(sometimes I feel like a bewildered child
caught in an ancient custody battle)
But on a good, mortal washing day
when I manage to hang out my washing
with a reasonable rhythm of
do
be
do
be
do be do be do
then these clothes peg deities allow the sun to shine
and sometimes even harmonise on that well-hung washing line
allowing me to ease into bed at night
with a well-laundered satisfaction
and enough clean, dry underwear
to see me through the approaching storms
