Craig Kurtz

Fünf Gedichte

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Telepathic Pills 

 

Telepathic pills for sale —

just try a few, they never fail;

the best commodity designed —

they’re X-ray vision for the mind.

 

You’ll find ‘em at the pharmacy —

go buy a dozen, get one free;

non-habit forming, pop a few

to know what folks are going to do.

 

They’re useful for financial gain

or spouse’s feelings ascertain;

if people call you bad names or

they’re up to no good, and what for.

 

You’ll really get ahead with these —

use only as directed, please;

there’s side effects that may persist —

the whole world might seem dishonest.

 

And, then, of course, they’re so widespread

with other people in your head;

their benefits were once clear-cut

’tho now it’s mindless scuttlebutt.

 

The more you have, you more you take

and soon you can’t apply the brake;

nobody verbalizes since

we suck up thoughts like fingerprints.

 

You’re waiting for a mind to load,

the cogitations all borrowed;

you’ve heard it all before but you’ll

continue to unwind that spool.

 

Who knows what’s worse, our thoughts for sale

or forced to hear others’, retail;

whoever thought up voice-to-skull

could not know it would be so dull.

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People Cubes

 

People cubes are out of view

performing jobs that we won’t do;

it is the labor of the cloned —

the tasks white collar folks disowned;

it’s all that working with the hands

that makes too many harsh demands;

and so the government procured

a way this slog could be endured;

by cloning people as a tax —

our clones drudge on while we relax.

They’ve siphoned our own DNA

to make stand-ins who will obey;

although they look a lot like us,

their agency’s asomatous;

in fact, they don’t have human rights,

the better to work long, cold nights;

but in it’s own odd way, it’s fair —

no one’s exempt, we’re all software.

The way it works, you’ll want to know,

we’re taxed an even ratio;

so every birthday that you get,

you’re cloned with a screenshot, preset;

it’s automatic, on the spot

and cheaper than a cheap robot;

you never meet your duplicate,

that ugly proletariat;

and every year, the government

clones you again, like paying rent;

just think of all the time you’ll save

diverging into your own slave.

Of course, collecting all these clones,

it tires out one’s aging bones;

who measures all the wear and tear,

this army of ourselves somewhere?;

but taxes never end, it’s said —

they’ll clone our clones after we’re dead.

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Interstellar Brothel

 

The day the humans went on strike,

there were no hookers that we like;

‘cause most of them that kept their jobs

were Ganemedian worm blobs;

but if you’re not too picayune,

just have a seat in the saloon;

the galaxy is a big place —

there’s more than just the human race;

binary fission can be hot —

there isn’t just one school of thought;

you’ve got to keep an open mind —

good sex is whatever you find;

the Ganemedes are not uptight —

of course, they do have poor eyesight;

all cats are grey, the saying goes —

by any other name’s the rose.

The humans formed a picket line —

this is an alien’s goldmine;

you’re doing it with annelids? —

nobody need tell your grandkids;

you’re throwing down with megadriles? —

we call it alternate lifestyles;

forget the boobies and the bum,

consider pseudopodium;

there’s no point being bigoted —

I’ll introduce you to a squid;

we’re offering a discount rate —

who needs a common vertebrate?;

sure, humans may seem pretty cute

but at this house of ill repute,

it’s satisfaction guaranteed

and that includes a Ganymede.

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Pied Piper

 

‘Pied piper, play your melody

and we shall pay thee gold specie;

you know the problem of this town —

a million rats that you must drown.’

 

He played a melody so weird

and, then, the millon rats appeared;

he led them to the docks where they

all perished, willingly, that day.

 

The Council who had employed him

dismissed his wages on a whim;

‘He’s done the job, now let us save

our coffers, and turn out the knave.’

 

The piper in his outfit odd

said ‘Gents, you will repent this fraud;

a generation will ensue,

then I’ll collect from each of you.’

 

These are the days of magicks made

available for retail trade;

a button pushed, a world appears

and plays a tune not heard in years.

 

These are the days of miracles, 

of technological idols;

we have the power to know much

but what’s that sound beyond our touch?

 

Listen, children, to that sound —

when ye awake, ye won’t be found;

the piper will be paid in full —

a generation, swallowed whole.

 

Craig Kurtz is the composer of Gubbish and Poèmes Déplorables de Wortley Clutterbuck. Recent journal publications include Quadrant (Australia), Litro (UK) and Pif (US).

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