Saturday, October 3, 2015
Scented? - A Poem
Peter wanted a new bottle of face wash.
'John at the gym keeps boasting' Peter will complain 'he just won't stop "oh I don't buy soap, I just use whatever my wife leaves in there" he'll say, "I don't know, some sort of face wash I think" he'll add when pressed for details' Peter will explain.
What's the active ingredient?
IS there an active ingredient?
What color is it?
How's the consistency and texture?
Is it oxygenized?
Is it environmentally friendly?
Is there a picture of sea-life on it?
Or even fruit?
Answer my questions.
Stop ignoring me.
I AM actually here.
I am asking you questions!
Can you not see that I'm real and here and asking you questions?
I have feelings.
Do you think I do not have feelings?
Because I do!
I can see.
I have got senses.
I can hear.
I can smell.
You don't think I have the sense of smell?
You don't think I deserve to have that sense inspired with beautiful imagination enticing descriptions of skin cleaning products, face wash to be more specific?
What is wrong with you?
What the HELL is wrong with you?
Why are you treating me this way?
Why aren't I worth your consideration?
I want to be considered damn it!
'I don't know, I just use whatever my wife leaves in there, some sort of skin washing cream, possibly a variety of face wash if you'd like me to be more specific' John will reply.
'Agghhhhh! Aaaaaggghhhhhh! AAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHH!' Peter will say.
It turned out Peter had a bit of a thing for skin washing products, I believe face wash to be more specific, if I remember correctly.
It was hard to blame him.
He WAS merely a pore on the right lower cheek of Clive Smithwick the best damn chimney sweep this side of the Calstone river.
And Peter was fed up with being covered in soot, or worse filled with a pimple, and missing out on those sweet, sweet inside of the chimney views.
And let's be honest, I'm sure this is a saga we can all relate to.