Ode To Frosty
"The mayfly lives only one day. And sometimes it rains."
-George Carlin
Napalm & Silly Putty
The worst.
The absolute worst
are the snowmen
of a mid-spring surprise flurry.
The kind that
leave a millimeter of snow
freckled green
with life coming below.
How fucking sad is it to be one of those guys?
Right from the moment of your erection---
“Erection”: a misnomer if ever there was one.
Mid-spring snowmen
being closer to one of those
sloppy seconds sex
floppy half hard-on’s
than actual throbbing cocks.
You look like shit
An upright melting tower of shit.
Your snow is half mud,
half dead leaves from last fall,
and some early lawn clippings
thrown in for texture.
Oftentimes
these sad-sack snow guys
don’t even have proper faces
when they are made
on that fluke spring day.
They’re given
these hollowed out pits for eyes
and a gaping, horrified pit of a mouth,
permanent silent shriek.
Like they took their broken tree branch arms
with crooked stick digits
and gouged out their own eyes
so they wouldn’t be able to see
how pathetic and short
their shitty stay in the world really is.
Tree branches for arms?
Jesus,
you can’t even masturbate properly
with a tree branch.
I know; I’ve tried.
There you are,
a droopy brown lump
on the side of a suburban yard,
spending your lifetime
wishing the weather had stayed warm all along.
Dying just a little more
as the lifetimes of shitty sandcastles are set to begin.
Everybody’s a fucking Picasso sometimes.
3 comments:
Thank you. I actually wrote the first draft of this poem a long time ago, performed it once at a RP Tuesday night when there were still RP Tuesday nights and never bothered to type up a proper good copy of it. When I was preparing for the unexpected music that I would have to read with I stumbled across my notebook which contained the poem and thought, "Well, if the music is more upbeat I should probably go with something kind of humorous and voila!"
did you get the award for most depressing poem about a happy childhood memory?
Seriously, I like the disturbing imagery. I will never look at snowmen the same way again...
I can almost remember snowflake for snowflake the poor wretch of a snowman I saw that inspired this poem. Ever since that fluke spring day I keep an eye out for one of those freak snow storm snowmen just so that I can take a picture of one to go along with the poem. The one that inspired the poem stood maybe three feet high, probably using most, if not all of the snow in the front yard of the neighbor's house and was mostly colored a dark brown because of all the mud and debris that was mixed into the snow. Sad, sad snowman. On one hand it's nice to see children doing something wholesome with their time, but on the other hand it's discouraging to see "wholesome" meaning making really shitty snowmen.
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