Thursday, 13 September 2012


With zen acceptance

I should feel blessed

that I keep throwing up

anything I can't stomach.

Can I keep looking through

this open wound on my eye

and be proud?

Or is it a curse

jarring my nerves

when the lid bangs on the wall

as I put my foot down

to throw out more rubbish?

How far is my tread allowed

for you, or for me?

No one to pass this down to

or interrupt

so I have to finish the job myself,

no excuses.

There's something rotting in there

makes me gag every time

but I don't have the time

to take it out

and start a fire,

I'm busy.

And someone will say

'I didn't think you were the type'.

Someone always does,

but I mustn't be judgemental.

So do I glitter myself pink

and poke in some feathers

suitable for my size?

Try and sing in key

or fire rounds from a machine gun

disregarding anyone trying to sleep?

Oh dear, I forgot

it was me trying to sleep.

All that decoration

the trouble it takes

industrially constructed underwear

under a painting

a Pre-Raphaelite masterpiece,

now what was it I was

preparing myself for?

Oh yeah, that fire

but I've left it too late

and this party dress has instructions;

keep away from fire.

Please don't credit me for this,

I might not feel

up to the challenge later.


Just a cosmetic burn,

don't tell anyone,

it really is the tonic.

I don't qualify for

some mothers little helper

and a scold indoors

saves me the shame of

raising my skin in public.

How can anyone be ill

if they're not swollen and livid?

Yesterday I looked down

on a polite English queue;


But tomorrow

even if I get to the window

that surname, I try not to use,

I'll be reminded is at

the end.





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