Clichés Dripping Off My Tongue

Clichés dripping off my tongue
I want to fuck you - then run.

Last seasons orange zest
has decayed into the new flavour banana peel
of rips and rags,
the zodiac signs are moving into their third share-house,
as Twinkle-toes triumphs over Taurus-tears.
Beware a dark-headed stranger
with eyes that brighten the sky,
he's male - it's just a prophecy,
and watch your back, the banks are out for revenge,
financial matters aren't looking up yet
and according to your stars have been failing
the past however many years you've been alive
and will continue to do so till the day you die.

Your lucky numbers are 13, and 666,
write them into your diary for kicks.
Now’s a good day to enter the lottery,
you’ll lose again and won’t feel obliged
to pay this years tax after the loss.
This will set you up for a romantic date
with Tax Fraud - delightful fellow I’ve heard,
and a court room scene will become quite absurd.

Change your religion to something less sincere,
divorce cases are getting expensive
and if you start agreeing to affirmation ceremonies
you can change your partner every second week,
and still come away with half the profit
- that is, if you are an astute business person.

Wear only black,
it’ll make you look thinner, paler, and even more sick,
but make sure that in the summer
you either get a fake tan sprayed onto your skin,
or you harm yourself by wearing
impossibly heavy winter clothing until you faint.

Smoke cigarettes [cigars are bigger, therefore better],
they’ll give you an artistic dying stance,
as well as a shorter life span,
it’s been said that only the good die young,
so death is the best option at this late stage.
Swallow plastic-coated pills,
they’ll help with addiction aches,
and wash it all away with copious amounts of alcohol,
the more you mix, the more you consume,
the unhappier you’ll be,
hence you’ll be well on your artistic way to eternal integrity.

Lock up all the boat people
that attempt to enter the country,
they’re sure to be knife brandishing terrorists
with suitcases filled with fertiliser
to blow up the land and kill you with nicely grown plants.
Remember the wise words spoken [eras ago] in Australian parliament,
a labour member by the last name Caldwell,
“Two wongs don’t make a white”
now what can you say against that?
Accept it, then make it your motto
when you engage in any racial gang bashings,
the more the merrier some may say.

And remember, in terms of the stars,
they never lie, never let you down,
and will always ensure
that your romantic life is never ceasing
with new strangers and rarely fulfilling,
your work will be dull and filled with feng shui failing advice
[which incidentally means wind (and) water in Mandarin],
your finances will always be in the red,
and you will never make it,
never see anything but doom and gloom,
but on the brighter side of things
you will have an unfortunate date with destiny
and die miserable in your own little hole.

By the way, I only speak in given clichés,
I’m just a member of a lost [degenerate] generation,
an indecency indiscretion of no sanctimonial expression,
keep it next to your heart, and never trust another,
and always beware of a lolly-pop lady
[she’s never had a lolly or a pop in her life].

Just fuck ‘em all - then run….


Lotophagi