Paul Robinson Poetry


Perfection Is a Bomb

It’s alright talking about it when you don’t have to do it,
But when you do it’s a different matter: food is food after all.
So nobody phoned you,
Isn’t that the way you like it?
I’ll tell you what’s cool:
Captain Caveman,
Be like him or Marlboro Man,
And don’t go around asking people, “What is fake mayonnaise?”
You’re only gonna get you or yourself killed.
Shall I put a tortoise shell on my back and spread rumours of a dark room?

Don’t go all mojo on me,
I saw you trying to open that pot noodle.
I was a teenage doppelgänger,
So was the other,
We were both teenage doppelgängers,
We both liked green,
I could smell his feet,
We both grew beards,
We never shook hands lest we explode.

Irrelevant! It’s Thursday,
Stuff like that doesn’t happen on a Thursday.
I could have been somebody,
Didn’t Brando say that on the waterfront?
That bloke was built like a brick shithouse;
I agree, but:
A steering wheel doesn’t make a car,
Much like astral treecoats don’t make knockborne lava.
It’s all about the original medium,
About the infrastructure that performs a number on our motivations and behaviour.

If only folk-music was more sexy.
Yeah! Banjos and stuff.

What do you really want out of life?
To be happy and sad.
Why sad?
Because without the sad, how would you know the happy;
Breadrolls make breadrolls,
Maybe the mental landscape is different but we all walk
On the same ground lapping up the ocean,
Our skulls providing the space for time-capsules to be buried.

PRobinson



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