Poems by Paul Hassing

my brain is getting smaller
as the world cuts it to size
we're dumbing down the hard bits
since we found that i'm unwise

the small pond of the big fish
now the marianas trench
i'm drowning in life's ocean and
it's something of a wrench

the man who once set vcrs
can barely lick a stamp
i thought i had a searchlight
it was a miner's lamp

I'm your bok choy baby,
You can call me Green Pea Paul.
I've got grinnage from that spinach
And that's not bloody all.

I'm a lamb-ramming psycho
Who never took a leek.
I've had a hit of gravy
That'll last me till next week.

So thank you wife so precious
For an ace and decent feed.
You're smart, cool and pretty,
And you fill my every need.

Jenny was juggling on our balcony on Sunday afternoon.

Her three coloured rings spun through the air above her concentrated gaze.

Suddenly, she lost control and the purple ring landed on my empty Violet Crumble wrapper.

'It's an omen!' I cried.

Jenny looked, and understood.

Later, she was juggling again, and this time, the purple ring landed on a cushion.

It, too, was purple!

We stared at the ring, at the cushion and at each other.

'It's an omen!' she exclaimed.

'Purple seeks purple!' I shouted.

And we understood.

It was groovy.

This flower is called a 'Fonnie Flower' because:

It's very hard to find.
Once you see it, you want to look at it all the time.
It's modest, yet breathtakingly beautiful.
It doesn't compete with other flowers.
It thrives in dark, barren conditions.
It turns an ordinary patch of clover into a tiny paradise.
It opens itself to the world, regardless of risk.
It's the pinkest thing ever.
The closer you look at it, the more you see.
It sums up all of nature's genius and goodness.
It rolls up tightly in cold weather.
It has a golden heart that's full of light and empty of evil.

The beautiful Fonnie Flower!

When holding a wet teaspoon,
Prithee, stop and think:
'Shall I wash and dry the b@$#ard,
Or chuck it in the sink?'

Imagine all your workmates
Gathered at your side;
Fondling their bread knives
As you try to decide.

Picture sixteen Staysharps,
Keen and cold and true,
Dicing you to dog food
And you'll know what to do.

My goodly mate Adam
Was kindly and smart.
He had a big brain and
He had a big heart.

His IQ was thrice mine
Twice doubled and then
Paired with the first number
Plus three score and ten.

His spirit was open;
His largesse a crime.
He gave ten percentiles
Though he'd not a dime.

He moved through his life with
Attention and care.
He had all the fixings
He was all but there.

Yet ever so down in
The small of his back,
An unguarded portal
Open to attack.

A target for mean things
Like toothpicks and fluff
And burrs, glass and gravel
And other sh!te stuff.

Instead of a bandaid
Or maybe a shirt,
He twisted and strained to
Check out all these hurts.

This thing in its doing
Brought Adam to ground.
But when he arrived there,
Not a foe was found.

Ensconced in their bolt holes
Safe in their disguise.
They mocked and they jeered him
And bested his eyes.

Meanwhile the bright sunshine
Impatient to rest
Moved over the mountains
And on to the west.

Instead of a young man
With noble head high,
A hunched figure fretting
With bulldust and flies.

The day is not over.
The sun is not set.
There's time yet to rise up
And over things get.

So stand to, young soldier,
Thy head from the sand.
Your heart and your brain seek
To know this fine land.

Press on ye regardless
Of everyday crud.
F%&# all of the numbnuts!
And go unto God.