money

Pharmacy Fog (no pain, no gain)

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

the doctor is a robot
his chest is full of little drawers
where they replaced his heart
the day the sales rep glided in
and explained it all to him

he’s programmed with prescriptions
and has no finer thoughts
he looks as if he listens
but the clock is always ticking
and he’s built to silence talk

he’ll take you to a special place
you’ll feel no mental pain
(he never heard the saying,
so he’ll cut you off from gain).

he’ll disconnect your soul
and cast you into fog
to wander down a hill
where nothing really matters
except the little pill

he keeps the money coming in
he keeps the coffers filled
he controls your will to live
but offers no real help

i hate him, i despise him
he’s a door that leads to ill
replace him with a place of love
where we can scream and shout
and cry and sob and kick the walls
and let our feelings out

replace him with a caring guide
who never tells us what to do
but quietly leads the tested way
to open up and grow
and finally be real

help us find our inner truth
for god sake let us feel
push me as you will
but i for one,
i swear to god,
will never take
that fucking little pill

Hidden Daffodils

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

the day is dim and poorly lit,
clouds are gathering in the west,
the leaves are shivering on the trees,
my shoes are worn, my pockets thin,
there’s no money left again,
the forecast warns of storms and rain

the shadows underneath the trees are full of hidden daffodils

the windows creak and draughts blow in
how bad can this old house become
there’s not much here to laugh about
this sort of joke is lost on me
the tap is dripping in the bath
the fire wont light, my cat is sad,
she’s curled up in a huddled ball
there’s nothing left to eat at all

the shadows underneath the trees are full of hidden daffodils

counting blessings I find some,
there’s still a roof above my head,
i still live, i still breathe,
my head is full of memories,
i can think, i can dream,
and winter always turns to spring

the shadows underneath the trees are full of hidden daffodils

Toss a Coin

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

I sang my heart out in the summer street,
a child, happily singing to myself.
The street was empty. As if from heaven
a coin fell at my feet, shining in the sun.
My grandfather threw it from a window.
His secret. An early wrong impression.

I never have cared too much for money.
I never had very much either but
it’s an arrogance to say so, I think,
when I have enough food on my table
and a warm bed to crawl into at night,
free medical care and education

To say I have little is far from true.
I have what I earned. Maybe not my due.
Money has no flow, it’s stuck on a peak,
a thin trickle flowing down to dry earth.
In a hollow game where the odds are stacked
the rich give kind charity, after theft.

Oh yes, you can rise from poverty
if you are lucky. Work is not enough,
neither is merit. Poverty kills Will.
Try rising from the grind of the bottom
when hope has died generations ago,
it’s all a matter of accepting fate.

I have one picture in my head forever.
A party in the house of Dr. Prem.
He boasted to me that his name means Love.
He invited me around to admire his wealth.
He told me he donates to charity.
He practises yoga every day at dawn

Ah yes, a very fine man indeed was he.
Celebrating his daughters birthday
we had a fine meal too, ending with cake.
The cake was cut. We stood in a circle.
I passed a plate to the silent servant
”No, not her” he said. ”She’s Untouchable.”

Money brands everyone, blessed or untouched.
So enjoy your dinner in the restaurants
while the poor sleep rough on our city streets
in Agra, London, Paris, New York.
Don’t let them put their empty hand on you.
The bad luck of the poor may be catching