By J.J. Tindall
SONG OF MY CELL PHONE
I celebrate My cell phone,
Which sings To me, assuming
All that I assume, propagating the infernal productions
Of my
Presumption. Like: mine flops out Like a Star Trek™ Communicator!
I loaf And surf The Net. I place
Bets. Sings! I like to play James Tiberius Kirk and answer “Kirk here.”
My tongue is in love! I sing Myself, I thank mice Elf,
I whisper sweet Softness, suaveness, I nearly Run motherfuckers over
Yapping
On it While driving my Japanese Car. I traded my German one
For shares in Royal Dutch
Shell. Woo-hoo! Whoa: nearly clipped that bitch . . . anyhoo:
I think they made my phone, I mean, the Dutch, And they’re a very clever people,
In my View. After all, they once had New York To Lose! I kid!
Though I kid you not when I say They actually do have the courtesy
To speak English over there. I dig that.
Hey: said my name is called
Disturbance, I’ll shout and scream,
Maybe Say “I’ll Kill the King!,” whoa! (screech) “Asshole!” . . . to a dead line!
Wait: I accelerate. SO not going gently into that good (SCREECH) . . .
–
J. J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He can reached at jjtindall@yahoo.com.
Posted on July 23, 2007