He’s had a thousand lovers,
but never had a mother.
He’s faced his own reality
in the tabloids, and on T.V.

Come here Mister Riley!
Mister Riley come here!

He slowly cut out his own heart,
and his life quickly fell apart.
Now he kills himself every day.
To him it’s only child’s play.

Insanity.
Insanity.
Insanity.

No willing victims Mister!
Mister no willing victims!

It’s such a black life he lives.
His evil’s so damn seductive,
and charged with sexual energy.
He’s not at all like you or me.

Take my life Mister Riley!
Mister Riley take my life!

It’s calm and cool he kills.
It’s disorder that gives him thrills.
He has always lived life so,
and who would tell him no?

How long must it go on Mister?
Mister how long must it go on?

Do you hold an infinite list
of victims in your fist?
Who shall you kill now?
And please—-tell me how.

Screams can be heard Mister Riley.
Mister Riley screams can be heard.

Mister Riley sits in his dark cell
contemplating the road to hell.
He hates his straight jacket’s fit,
and he doesn’t want to die in it.

Are you sane Mister Riley?
Mister Riley are you sane?

They say he passed the test,
and was cured by his rest,
but the experts still didn’t know
if they should have let him go.

Will you be good Mister?
Mister will you be good?

He had a life to begin again,
and became an upstanding citizen.
Or so the experts all thought,
but he just never got caught.

Have a long life Mister Riley.
Mister Riley have a long life.

He continued to play his game.
Mister Riley was still the same.
He lovingly committed suicide
by moonlight and the daily tide.

We all love you Mister.
Mister we all love you.

The masses raised him up,
and gave him a jeweled silver cup.
They made him their undying god,
and lived for his approving nod.

Shall we kill ourselves Mister Riley?
Mister Riley shall we kill ourselves?

He gave them a laughing smile,
and bid them to live awhile,
but only ‘til he was displeased.
Then heads rolled between their knees.

Is there any one left Mister?
Mister is there any one left?

Mister Riley found himself alone,
and he let out a pathetic moan.
All he wanted to know was why?
Why he alone could not die.

We let you down Mister Riley.
Mister Riley we let you down.

We’re sorry.

christopher…. ‘88

Apparently, judging from the date, I wrote this when I was 18, more than half my lifetime ago. This is nearly a prime example of why I don’t like my writing surviving. This poem has outlived itself, it has not withstood the test of time, which just means it wasn’t that good to start with.

I still have a soft spot for it though, and don’t think it completely sucks. I’d written a post-apocalyptic poem about a man in phone both trying to commit suicide with a radioactive gun. But I lost this poem during a move from Sioux City to Dubuque (which means in my memory it was the best poem ever). Anyway, “Mr. Riley” was my attempt to recreate this poem. It ended up no where like the original in anything other than theme.

Like it or hate it as you see fit. I don’t really care.

Posted by Christopher L. Jorgensen  on  03/24  at  11:45 AM