κόσμον τόνδε, τὸν αὐτὸν ἁπάντων, οὔτε τις θεῶν οὐτε ἀνθρώπων ἐποίησεν, ἀλλ’ ἦν ἀεὶ καὶ ἔστιν καὶ ἔσται πῦρ ἀείζωον, ἁπτόμενον μέτρα καὶ ἀποσβεννύμενον μέτρα
Stewart Lee
I can write jokes, I just choose not to
Heraclitus
You don’t get a blaze of laughter but you should
Laughter is like fire
it crackles and splutters
it purifies
Wild like laughter like fire
It dances, it dances
as though mocking time itself
with its not-existing-existence,
and gone
As your brain ticks beneath the heat of the lighting
The machine of your mouth
The subtler machine within
your sandpaper brain
The scratch of your delivery
What you have done is create
substantial nothing
It purifies
Your lips on the mic in caesura – flow
you create
sound after silence
brute noise after a system of manipulations
joy as a by-product
of a political point
The stomach of an auditorium
eructing
like in the cartoon
where the human-like non-human animal
burps so fiercely it sets ablaze
chars to a carbon squiggle
anyone close
It crackles and splutters
and your brain ticks beneath the heat of the lighting
Did you get that
Joy as a by-product of the political point
it purifies
The comedic ouroboros
If there is an escape from ideology
it lies somewhere within the circle
of the seriously silly
Wood Bee Poet 