Farmville Requests

 by Ashley Lister

 Below please find a poem that I read at last night's Dead Good Poets' open mic event. Please note that, whilst this event was themed around LOVE - this poem does not purport to be about LOVE. Please also note that, whilst this week's theme on the blog is for shapes - the best I can think to say here is that this poem fills a blog-shaped hole this Saturday morning.

However, rest assured that the sentiment behind the poem is as heartfelt as anything I've ever written.

You can stick your f***ing Farmville

Where the sun will never shine

I won’t waste my life on sh*t like this

I just don’t have the time.

I’m not saying that it’s dangerous

And I don’t wish you were dead

But instead of playing Farmville

Why not have a wank instead?

Why not read a book?

Why not talk to those you treasure?

Why not ignore your virtual farm

And find some real pleasure?

Maybe find a cure for cancer?

Maybe help to forge world peace?

Maybe fight the diaspora

That plagues the Lebanese?

Or do you really need some help

With harvesting your virtual crops?

Help for ploughing your virtual fields?

Assistance in the husbandry of your virtual livestock?

Cos if you really need my help

I think that’s cause for alarm

Cos you’re asking for assistance

To manage your own imaginary farm

So stick your f***ing Farmville

Where the sun will never shine

I don’t waste my life on sh*t like this

I just don’t have the time.

And stick your f***ing Coasterville

In the same dark place of fun

Fill it up with Angry Birds

Block it with a Temple Run

These stupid f***ing games

Really get right on my tits

So stop pestering me with your dumb requests

Cos I’m playing Bejewelled Blitz.

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Angry Birds

I don't want to be a poet.
I want to be a poet who stuffs evelopes in a pale green office.
I don't want to be a poet.
I want to be a poet hiding from expectations which peep through windows.
I don't want to be a poet.
I want to be a poet who writes it down in 20 different ways rather than say it our loud.
I don't want to be a poet.
I want to be a poet who sees the rain falling on the washing and stays at the desk.
I don't want to be a poet.
I want to be a poet who can't take a bath without a pen and soggy paper.
I don't want to be a poet.
I want to be a poet with duties firmly ignored for the fictional taskmasters they are.
I don't want to be a poet.
I want to be a poet hiding beneath a table in the eye of a storm.
I don't want to be a poet.
I want to be a poet who rhymes stew with poo just to hear her repeat it back.
I don't want to be a poet.
I want to be a poet with a healthy disregard for metre or rhyme and a disturbing fetish for repetition.
I don't want to be a poet.
I want to be a poet who doesn't want to be a poet.
I don't want to be a poet.
I want to be a poet who opens evelopes in a pale green office despite having stuffed them moments earlier.
I don't want to be a poet.
I want to be a poem.

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