Tag Archives: #Room

The Giraffe in the Room

“We’re not talking about the giraffe in the room, we’re talking about the elephant in the room; the elephant that everybody has so conveniently chosen to ignore; the elephant that— the giraffe? There is a giraffe in the room? How high is the ceiling? And, more to the point, what’s the giraffe doing here?”

Never Forget to Feed the Elephant in the Room

Never, ever, forget

to feed the elephant;

because, you don’t want

an angry, hungry elephant,

in your house.

A mouse might chew

on your skirting boards

to get through to the other side;

but, you won’t be able to hide

the damage that a ‘phant would do

if they wanted to.

The skirting boards

might be the only things left;

of the rest of the room,

you could well be bereft.

Pizza Oven

Pizza oven

I put my pizza oven

in the corner of the room

because my elephant likes pizza;

but, I had to move the loom;

and the grand piano,

the billiard table, too;

my Moto Guzzi sidecar,

an African canoe;

the Vienna String Quartet,

who were playing by the fire;

and every single member

of the Vienna Male Voice Choir.

Because my elephant loved pizza,

he shrank and disappeared;

and all the musicians hurried back,

they applauded and they cheered;

Occasionally, my elephant,

he comes and visits me,

together we get drunk;

mull about the old times,

we natter ‘til way past three;

but every time he’s in the room,

I think, that maybe he has shrunk;

and maybe one day, in a future time,

he’ll really pack his trunk.

I am the ghost in the machine

I am the ghost in the machine

I am the ghost in the machine,

the elephant in the room,

the fly in the ointment,

the wolf in sheep’s clothing;

and I have a loathing

for what I am.

I am the ghost in the room,

the elephant in the machine,

the wolf in the ointment,

and the fly in sheep’s clothing;

and I have a loathing

of what I have become.

I am the wolf in the room,

the fly in the machine,

the elephant in the ointment,

the ghost in sheep’s clothing;

and I have a loathing for this type of poem,

where the combinations grow

with every word

ever more and more absurd –

I am the septic in the poem,

or should that be sceptic?

Anyway, as I was saying,

I am the poet

in the septic,

tank.

No, that’s not right…

I am the poet in the room,

sheepishly wearing wolf’s clothing,

flying in the ghost machine,

whilst coated in ointment…

allegedly.