π: You’re a funny kid, kid.
ø: You’re a funny kid, kid.
π: Stop copying me.
ø: Stop copying me.
π: I’ll stop copying you if you tell me your favorite song.
ø: Yellow Submarine.
π: Yellow Submarine.
ø: Stop copying me.
π: Stop copying me.
Author: Aidan Badinger
Wharved.com
I am a poet.
I write poems.
Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.
Turmeric Is My Favorite Spice
§: Turmeric is my favorite spice.
ª: That’s lovely. Can I have my coffee now?
My Hamster Ball Will Not Interfere
©: However you may approach this situation, I assure you my hamster ball will not interfere.
ß: Yeah, I’ve heard that before. Never with a hamster ball, but the scenario has definitely presented itself in one form or another over the years.
©: Like what? Emotional distress?
ß: Occasionally. It has also manifested itself as hypochondria, rabies, testicular cancer, octopus ink, test-tube babies (twice), and a whole slew of times I was told that granola bars were none of my business.
©: Wow, that’s harsh. Granola bars should be everybody’s business.
ß: Yeah, I quit that job after two weeks.
Tell Me You’ve Got Something Better Than That
Tell me you’ve got something better than that.
You don’t?
Well, what do I have to do to furnish this apartment?
You’re turning my Sunday into a joke.
Don’t you understand the necessity of professional moving companies?
No, don’t give me that. These guys are bush league.
A mover in his prime has six years in the minors under his belt
before he so much as touches a corrugated box.
No, forget it. Do you see how Blue Cap Guy over here lifts with his back?
Bush league.
Rhyme Time, Yo (From the Unposted, Previously Unfinished Annals)
So here’s the gist, here’s the deal.
We have a lot of people making their spiel
about a guy who really didn’t do much in his life
aside from the living part, the kids and wife,
for what reason? He didn’t want to be ridden with guilt
and approach conversations on six-foot stilts.
He wanted peace, he wanted quiet, the kind of space to think,
in a world of vast opinion where individual liberties shrink
into untold recesses of ill-defined emotional junk.
So he grabs for his childhood, that meaningless chunk
setting him up for an average haze;
and now this last line rhymes with days.
Grande Espresso Ring
A tall man wearing a grande espresso ring stole my attention from a tarpaulin-wearing socket wrench-eating groundskeeper.
Where the distinction crosses my overworked plane still lies in the forbidden zone, though I surmise someone kept their turtle bracelet a day too long.
As long as everything flips hydrophobia under invoice paneling, your undernourished calcium ducts should respond with vim and vigor.
Wing Man
X: Who do I want as my wingman?
O: Ooh! Pick me!
X: And why are you suitable for this prestigious post?
O: Don’t you see my wings, dude? Chicks LOVE ’em.
X: Of course chicks love wings; they have little stubby ones and wish they could just grow up and get their feathers already.
O: I meant girls.
X: Oh… all right, let’s give this a shot.
WHARVED 