That's right. Rooku, the poor distant cousin of Haiku, appears to have taken over our trains. The age of Rooku dawned not with a bang but with a George Michael-esque careless whisper.
It purports to offer oodles of (read: some) colour and movement to an otherwise quintessentially beige train trip. Instead, when you put this new age poetry blah blah under the microscope, stethoscope and kaleidoscope, it's still really farking shit.
For example:
early autumn ---
trees along the railway track
hold onto their leaves
morning rainbow ---
above the four-leaf clover
a dying flower
Make you want to scream? Michael Jackson agrees.
Now let me be clear. I don't hate poetry. I love poetry. My friend, affectionately known as Pierre, is an aficionado of the written word. He has been running very successful slam nights at the Dan O'Connell/Blue Velvet/wherever they'll take him for years. [Shameless plug = click me].
Sort of relevant but not reallyI've got the feeling that one more Rooku might be all it takes to send an unstable, self-loathing train traveller over the edge.
And then it would be the end.
The four horsemen of the apocalypse would roll out. Toads would rain from the sky. The sun would blind us. And Australia would never win cricket again.
*Excessively large sigh*
Happy Anzac Day for tomorrow. Here is some themed Rooku:
anzac day –
listening on the radio
to a minute’s silence
*screams*
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