eating my cake

in the absence of a belligerent dadaist,
i drove to the gravel lot with Pink Floyd
playing Time rather than keeping it under
the mattress where i normally sleep,
under wraps which i frequently toss when
i jump up, shouting Vive Dada! each morning,
mostly just to piss off some people i know.
when i parked over loose stones, a storm was brewing nearby.
i was able to hear the claps of thunder much like an
agitated audience waiting for the music or some words
to have a certain predictability, when,
with the house lights low, they shamelessly caused a scandal by yelling,
stomping their feet, holding obscene signs,
mostly just to piss off some people i know.
and it soon began to rain in an unsophisticated fashion,
like a fuse of an iconoclastic stick of dynamite having been lit,
then finding packed gunpowder in a fizz of explosive spite.
i stayed inside my car and missed the wetness of it,
eating my cake,
mostly just to piss off some people i know.
when my lunch was finished i somehow or other made a fuss
with a persuasive lady who offered me an explanation, and i would
have stood up had i been able, but i was worn to a pulp by
worries and sirens and traffic carried here from another city.
so i sat undeterred as the bourgeoisie became the intelligentsia,
leaving my car only when the rain stopped,
mostly just to piss off some people i know.
and when i did, i saw more of myself than before.