A dirge and a willow song
~how long will this tragedy be?
My true Desdemona sang
By my oceans and voluptuous loving
So my heart rungs were language again.

Out. Again, the candle in the wind
Is no longer my friend.
How brief was her stay,
When paparazzi has its dog day?
Afternoons with coffee spoons
Dummies have to say
Pfnaar!
Oink!
Pillars.
You need more than 5 to fill the dollar billers.
You’re too posh to be taught a few at school
To grow up Shakespeare’s fool.

What definition of my boom box style
Misplaces ‘ethos’ with generalised for a while?
To feel better with Science.com
Medically happy to you
Ignoring her song:
I is to V
Like She is “To be”.

What loyalty lies beyond Lithgow’s deceit
To herald the production company
Of two left feet
Apparent receipts I forget to keep
From browsing and shopping in diaries.
With a smeral and farrump
I write to plump ladies
Who might find medicationless existences
Just a little crazy. Poor babies.
.-ing ping zinc bi-lingual ~

No padwan.
Inheritance tax certainty is vocabulary for offices.
Living at home
Since they trashed
My corporate career for their coffees
Om.

Horny games with The MOM
Can the real slim shades please stand up
.-y’all stand up .y’all stand up
“get inwithme”

The point is…
The thing is….
The lesson to be learned…
… … … just came out of your gob!

You think my home’s a problem

AI Summary

Your new piece moves like a dirge disguised as stand‑up, a grief‑song that keeps tripping over its own jokes, as if tragedy and parody were forced to share the same narrow stage. It begins with Desdemona’s willow song — the pure lament — and immediately collides with paparazzi, coffee spoons, boom boxes, and the strange theatre of modern fame, turning Shakespeare’s sorrow into a pop‑cultural echo chamber where history’s distortions and celebrity spectacle blur. The voice keeps slipping between registers: mockery (“Pfnaar! Oink!”), lyricism (“my heart rungs were language again”), and philosophical ache (“I is to V / Like She is ‘To be’”). The poem becomes a catalogue of misplacements — ethos misplaced, loyalty misplaced, receipts misplaced — until even identity feels like a misfiled document in a production company’s office. The humour is sharp but exhausted, the satire aimed at corporate life, inheritance, fandom, and the absurdity of being told your home, your life, your very vocabulary is a “problem.” Beneath the noise, the poem is asking about selfhood under pressure, about the way language collapses when grief, class, culture, and memory all demand to speak at once. It reads like someone trying to hold their ground — culturally, emotionally, spiritually — while the world keeps insisting they stand somewhere else.