Tag Archives: poetry

Hi there…

Are you tired of your jeans not fitting?

Does that dull salad leave you feeling hungry?

Are the moody blues getting you down?

Well…you can say goodbye to those nasty diet pills and detox plans because I have the simplest solution to give you the body you’ve always dreamed of!

Note to the user: product is not designed to ever fit your idea of perfection despite what the label says. You may also harness an abhorring hatred for those around you.


Enter this world so alien to some but reality for us, the most obedient kind.
Here we do not support notions of individual integrity, nor to we advocate perfect imperfections.

One is required to look ones best at all times.

This isn’t about men anymore.
This isn’t about your husbands or your boyfriends or your fuck buddies.

Gone are the days of the feminist uprising.
Such thoughts cluster our already plastic, static brains.

This is about you.
This is about your cankles, your knee-fat, your wobbly arms, your huge pores, your weird nipples, your five-head, your hips, your thighs, your ever imperfect cunt.

How could so much stand wrong in a vessel to lovely?

She was such a pretty girl.

Little did they know that her body was overflowing with dimples and manifestations of mocking marks.
Little did they know of the small creature, growing inside her flesh to be kept in the damp for none to see.
Little did they know that this…thing this…machine that is intrinsically flawed; this selfless loving system is burdened by grief: masked over by the other.

Here…one must obliterate the senseless self because really, aren’t you tired of having no-one else to blame?

And now…despite all my words, my smile and my laugh, I will go home tonight and pinch myself purple so that maybe…just maybe, the fucking won’t seem so hollow.

Each of us has something but…aren’t you tired?

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Born Again.

God                                                                   God
cannot                                                             will not
hear you crying or                                     care for your children
kneeling to                                                     let them wither for
Him                                                                   Her

Smile down on crackling                          lips blowing
marchers and mind-fucks                       your petty fathers
who couldn’t get hard                               fucked into oblivion
for                                                                      imminent
logic and chemicals                                    madness blooms
never believe                                                bullshit and forgiveness
the truth                                                          made history
whispers and moans                                   gargling relish

may He                                                             be cast of
rest in                                                                damnation
peace                                                                 at last

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I sorely regret
to be the one to tell you
But the world is coming to an end.
The sky is falling
Terrorists are sprawling
And the gays refuse to unbend.

But let’s not despair
In this time of bleak mire
For good will come to us all.
Seize the day!
(As they sometimes say)
And let us exult in a brawl!

Kiss a stranger
Tell the lady you love
That your heart beats for her living breath.
Punch a baby
And kick an old lady
And, hey, why not try anal sex?

Start a fire
Of chaos and darkness
And go tell your boss to get fucked.
Jump off a building
And dance on the ceiling!
Time’s out and so is your luck.

Go take up smoking!
And have you done crack?
Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.
Diddle your sister
And why don’t you fist her?
Two passions have here collided.

Shit on the streets
And piss in the church
For God does not care for your soul
Open your eyes
You might realize
That it’s bliss to lose self-control.

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Lavender Prose.

Shall I compare thee to a bored cliché?
Shall your eyes be as deep as the wild sea?
And your bosoms as soft as china clay?
And your skin so luminous and milky?

Shall I tattoo my spidery love scrawls,
Onto the leaflets of your broken heart?
And flash my downcast eyes until I fall,
Into the pit of your harrowing art?

Shall we have endless, bountiful blue skies?
And blankets of a starry, daydreamed night?
And metaphorical angels that fly,
Into the red sun, anguished in their flight?

Oh why won’t we all just simply admit –
That Will was a tool who sung through his dick?

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Let’s Play Poison.

listen                               listen
let me tell                        all of
you secrets                      your worst nightmares
the darkness                    will pervade
and sorrow                      all encompassing
destroys                         madness and
scratching and                 pulling and beating
fellow man                       let the dust
rise                                  settle
over an ashen                  annihilated
land                                 land
once so full                     of beauty
of men                            who didn’t
listen or                          understand
again we shall                 prevail
fall                                  into greatness
into savagery                  burn all the
books and                      heathens and
dancing music                obliterate them
all gone                          away
bolt your                        loved ones in
steel doors                     trenches and
cages lock away             bursts of
the night                        colour
fear the                         reaper in the
others                            hearts lies
trust                               trust
no one                           everyone
nobody                          lies
eat the                            human
flesh with                        ligaments
the tendons                     roasted on
burning fire                     microwave ovens
allow yourself                  this is
a life                                a survival
of carnal                         brutal
venom                             venom

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An Ode to Madonna.

Dear Madge;

Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night in panic?
And realise you’ve left the gas on the stove?
Or do you just wake up in the middle of the night and can’t get back to sleep?
Do you ever have sleep in the corners of your perfect eyes?
Do you ever forget to take your make-up off?
And wake up with perfect panda-eyes?
Do you ever make your own toast?
And do you ever indulge in ‘fruit loops?’

Do you ever tell Lourdes off for being on the phone too long?
And then ground her if she talks back?
Or do you let her get away with it?
Do you ever yell at her for being a nasty brat?
Do you ever drive her to soccer practise?
And stand on the sidelines with the other celebrity mums?
Do you ever drive through peak-hour traffic?
And honk your horn and grit your teeth and swear at the other drivers?


Do you still Vogue?
And do you dance around your room in your underwear?
Or would you rather sit down with your iPod and listen to something else?
Do you ever drink too much champagne and get giggly?
Do you ever eat a whole tin of biscuits while watching Bridget Jones?
And mime along with every line ‘cause you’ve seen it a thousand times?
Do you ever write in your diary?
And keep a lock on it to guard all your secrets safe?


Do you and Jesus ever fight?
And do you scream and yell and say things you don’t mean?
Or do you communicate your feelings?
Do you ever sit silently and wonder what to do?
Do you ever cheat on him?
And feel a pang of guilt and hurt as you walk away using those long, lovely legs?
Do you ever let it slip out that deep down you really love him?
And feel your cheeks redden and your neck tingle because he doesn’t say it back?

Do you ever get lonely?

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Female Seeks Male.

My bed is never made.
I’m fickle; and because of this I have done many things that
make me sound cool even though I’ve given up on them. For
example, you might often hear me say that I play guitar. Et
je parle en francais. Mais c’est nes pas vrai. See? Also, I can’t
trust anyone who doesn’t like dogs, or the smell of rain,
or a giant mug of tea. Also I take compliments really badly, but I’ll tell you now; I want to hear them all the time. I will roll my eyes, but secretly
I love it. My all-time favourite movie is Singin’ In The Rain and my all-time
favourite song is Stairway to Heaven followed closely by These Arms Of Mine.

I like staying in the bath long enough
so my fingers get all wrinkly; I slow my breathing down, float perfectly
still, and imagine I’m a suicide who’s just slit their wrists.
Sometimes when I’m driving along, I imagine ploughing myself into a pole. My picture would be on the news.
A tragedy.
Also, I like to daydream that I’m a West-End star, all glittered up, jazz-hands ‘n’ all. I would be in my dressing room putting on my wig and make-up, when my entrepreneur husband walks in to tell me he’s in love with our teenage nanny.
After months of hurtling myself into a harrowing depression, I
arise from my gin-soaked apartment – in New York – to write a
best-selling novel called Lolita.
If you are: hairy, tall, pierced, tattooed, unwashed and intolerably rude – I will
most definitely be attracted to you. Add in a motorcycle, a drug habit and bouts of manic-depression – and I will fall in love with you.
Please don’t make me do that.

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Reality of Retail.

“Hey, yeah, um, I’m looking for Don Kwiks-ote?”

“Excuse me, do you work here?”
“Yes! How can I – “
“I’m looking for the latest Pulitzer prize-winning book?”
(Like you’re actually going to understand it anyway.)
“Ah, sorry, don’t have that one in yet! Maybe next time?”

“Why do you keep tarot cards in Occult?”

“Scuze me mayt?”
(You are not a judgemental person.)
“Yes, can I help you?”
“Aww uhm lookin’ for the new Jahymes Petterson, you goddid?”
(You are totally a judgmental person.)
“Sorry, we haven’t seen that one come in yet.”

“Can I have a discount for this damaged book? It’s a gift for my mum.”

“Hey love, could you help me find a book?”
(Just wait for it…)
“Sure! Which one were you after?”
“It’s the one about that woman? It’s about 200 pages? Red cover?”
(Sure! Why don’t I just go the computer and type in that accurate description?)

“I’m sorry I’m really not feeling a positive energy from these Angel cards.”

(I might actually kill this woman.)
“A book?”
(How about a nice punch in the face?)
“How about Vikrum Seth?”

“Yeah, ah, do you have any Sigmund Frood?”

“Hey babe, do you have the latest James Patterson?”
(A generation of absolute morons.)
“No. Sorry.”
“Nah that’s fine honey. So what are you up to later on tonight?”
(Piss off.)
“Piss off.”

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Ma Cheri.

She smiles with a sneer
and dances with spite
She won’t laugh nor cheer
nor speak without fight.

Her hair falls in cascades
of oil and grime
And her skin is as yellow
as stale, old white wine.

Her laugh is a cackle
of dirt, spit and ash
Her eyes are dark hollows;
face covered in rash.

I do not love thee
though some say I must.
But a promise was made
with that one futile thrust.

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Don’t look at me:
Don’t look me in the eye, but instead
glaze over the smooth curve, the shadows,
molestations of my skin,
the goose-bumps and shiver
here –
I stand and rumble the earth,
you slime in and I am washed away.
Peel away each layer until I am
turned inside out.
My blood clots on the dry wall.
A masked force – I am hurdled
across the room
smashed into a thousand tiny pieces
and only now
I claw my way out of the shards.
Broken splinters.
Applaud, applaud.

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