Xmas 1996

1996

Kittens flood our yard in plague proportions;
The vapours weep their burden to the ground;
John Howard twists through more extreme contortions
On race and Hansen. Challenges abound.

Balding, clumsy, bickering and forgetful
My manners grow less polished every year.
My range runs from facetious down to fretful:
I am not as awake as I appear.

I do not need the things I buy and own.
I am encased, encrusted with possessions.
We come with only bone and flesh, we leave with bone,
And in between exchange our Christmas presents. 

My fiftieth Christmas looms. 
The cat shits on my pillow, and it's runny.

I can't run from it.
I have to laugh (or else I have to vomit);
The world may be appalling, but it's funny.