Poetry K-Hole 2: Oi, God

Big old poof, sittin’ in the sky

Bossin’ us ’round,

Dunno why.

I guess He doesn’t have enough to do,

Can’t sort His own shit out

So He has to give us arseholes

About feeding skinny kids

In Africa.

Why doesn’t He feel bad?

He’s the one who made them,

Racist, too, since he made all the poor ones black.

Or did he make all the black ones poor?

*

Simon P. Murphy is the author of His Master’s Wretched Organ.

Poetry K-Hole 1: Down And Out in Nelson and Stoke

Down And Out in Nelson and Stoke

Hermes Trismestigus,

On the fuckin’ benefit.

His case manager Te Aroha gives him arseholes.

A right fuckin’ rark up.

Doesn’t want to thin apples,

Doesn’t want to fillet Hoki.

Just wants to write about the psychic elements

And the topography of impinging dimensions

Not much good being a smart cunt if he’s sitting at home on the dole

Not working for his money.

Te Aroha’s had a bloody gutsful

And so has Raelene

No more going to the drags,

No more car shows at Rangoon,

No more midget stock car racing

Til he gets his fuckin’ act together.

He thinks he a smart cunt,

Says he can invert mental polarities

And formulate a geometric model for translating

The operations of higher dimensions into the lower,

But he can’t even remember his 9-digit client number

Or where he last saw his community services card.

Te Aroha has just about lost all hope,

Raelene is sick of Hell’s Angels knocking on the door

Looking for Hermes after selling them a bad batch.

Maybe what he needs is to sort his shit out,

Go on an Outward Bound course,

Might get his foot in the door with the army,

Maybe even an apprenticeship.

Maybe he could do his fork-lift licence,

Or maybe go back and finish his School Certificate,

Instead of poring through the Necronomicon

Or scrying alien constellations.

*

Simon P. Murphy is the author of His Master’s Wretched Organ.