OUTA SPACE SOCCER - Poem by Ann Cotten
Go and kick a falling star
make a feeling throw him far
kick him to the edge of green
where the follies can be seen
as they hit him in the face
with their entertaining colours
a whole plethora of hate
scheming at the entrance gate
as a shapeless heap of followers.
Kick him till the stars are flowers,
he no longer thinks of you
you are he and he is you.
Give me law for chow? Not me.
Tell your tales to whom you will
Regard the soles of my feet
I have a crack where you have none
So I will make one
See this knife in you?
Your blood is my life
because your thoughts are my death
I did not think this up
I carried it out
and am sorry
you behaved so badly.
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