Giraffes
by Ezra Pound

Giraffe lives high
Giraffe lives tall
The haughty Giraffe Lives  above us all.

It eats the leaves
It looks around
Although so high
Feet on the ground

Yes, the Giraffe. Closest to God, and yet the giraffe does not toss down its judgements; it watches us live, notes our more interesting movements, and uses its ears to transmit text messages to its Giraffe friends about us. Sometimes, a nosey jungle vine hears the gossip, and when that vine is made into a reed for a clarinet, then the clarinet will speak the secrets of the Giraffe. This is news - and it is how we know things. We should bow to the Giraffe, Although it wouldn't notice if we did, and bowing would probably increase the chances of being accidentally stepped on by the very same giraffe. Damn this metaphor.

Cannabis Will Be The Downfall Of God's Clean Earth

When I was riffling through my daughter's bedside cabinet to see if she had reached the pornography age, I nearly gagged on my own necktie to find the paraphernalia of the Rastafarian tucked into a box of her tampon towels. Clearly she had thought that I would be deterred and repulsed by her womanly menstrual indulgence, and had not thought me to be made of sterner stuff. A centimetre cube block of resinous drug matter stared at me, and told me that my daughter was lost to a carnal hive.

I am the most modern of parents. I was a child of the 60s, and what a terrible period it was to live through, being a proponent of the suddenly unfashionable Charleston dance. How galling, then, to hear the popular band Doop resurrect this dance thirty years too late! Most Charleston dancers of my age group are quite rightly bitter to have been born in such a terrible Charleston limbo.

My daughter is to be confined to the attic until she has learned her lesson, and the humility required of her station as a lady of society. This cannabis narcotic is the single most addictive substance on the face of the planet, and you need only share a table in a Little Chef with a homeless dope addict before you drop dead on the spot, clawing at your throat like a staked vampire. One must be vigilant.

Homophobia Is Not A Privilege, It Is A Right And A Duty

My daughter thusly confined to the upper rooms, my attention wandered to my son, who was recently separated from his girlfriend of two weeks. I pondered his apparent indifference, and his explanation that she was "a messed-up bitch, real messed-up" sat uneasily with my belief that he was a raging perverted homosexual, who must be stopped lest he infect my own rigid genitalia and those of my regiment.

And by rigid, I mean unswerving and true, and not bloated by a torrent of HIV soaked blood cells. I can think of nothing less stimulating than the idea of two hairy men "at it" in a darkened toilet, squealing like a conversation between two birthing cows.

My suspicions were confirmed when I confronted the boy. His laughing denials were poison to my ears. I stunned him with a clout to the temple using the Dustbuster machine, and am retaining the body in a vinegar solution until a fitting punishment occurs to me.

Talk Like Me, Damn Your Eyes

It was my profound misfortune to spend some time in the town of Birmingham over the last month. I was perpetually agog at the depths to which these people would sink simply to annoy me. They deliberately imitated my second son, Jeff, whom we have long since sold for meat because of his unfortunate Down's Syndrome condition. I find their lack of sympathy for my son's predicament frankly distasteful, and I shall not go back to that fuck-forsaken town until I have forgotten about this incident.

What Is This Rubbish On Television?

What the hell is this rubbish I am expected to watch on the televisual tube? For the life of me, I cannot work it out. It appears to be a programme designed specifically to raise my heckles. Some dark lady has just walked onto a stage not unlike the altar in my local chapel, and is proceeding to refer to her "booty" as though it were a street commodity! I am assured by her stage companion that she is not "all that", as she claims to be, and that she needs to drop the junk from her trunk. I find this dark jive baffling, and it maddens me.

A fight has broken out. This is really too much. I know that the high standards of society cannot be expected of these dark skinned ladies, but if they are to arrive at our shores in order to avail themselves of our generous welfare service, and to bear the children of our Aryan stock, surely they should strive to contain the bestial urges that drive them?

Do You Really Expect Me To Eat That?

My wife is a good Christian lady. Throughout her life, I cannot recall having heard her utter a profanity, and she does not expect nightly nonsense from me, now that we have our full quota of offspring. In fact, she often sleeps in a different house altogether, where I believe Pastor Fabio tends to her need.

But, for the love of Jesus Christ Our Saviour! Chicken, again! Am I to suffer forever the daily torment of this infernal meatstuff? Marinated, if that is not too grand a word, in what I can only approximate to be a liquid previously used for bathing a spunky dog? Does that woman think I am some sort of disposal device, to thrust such ungodly muck under my face and expect me to shovel it in as though I were working class? 

I have worked long to reach my position, and I will not be undermined by the machinations of a wife. She has been put to death, and she will rot forever as carrion for Satan himself.