An Ode To A Pedantic Prick
You always did think that you were better than me, didn’t you?
You had read more books than me,
Had a more extensive vocabulary,
All those glistening words cavorting behind your dull jelly eyes,
Paid heed to the canon,
Read the “Classics”, you had done your time,
I was just an upstart in your eyes, no threat whatsoever, beneath you.
You were just so convinced that you were better.
Even now you clutch at your
Full of rank dribbling poesies.
You speak of love,
But you don’t know what it means,
Just like the rest of us clueless fuckers.
I write with fire
I write with rage and venom
I write with hate.
Bitterness and contempt gushes through my veins
And ejaculates onto the page,
Hot thick and sticky globules of my mishapen words: run down your face
With its slutty secrets.
You write with beautiful rose-scented petals
And squalid cherry blossoms and magically fluffy clouds,
You create perfectly punctuated poetry,
But I could piss a better poem than you ever could.
And you always thought that you were better,
Well look who’s laughing now.
In The Plastic Room
I think god is dead.
Or, he is at least on life support.
I can hear his laboured breathing in the antiseptic, plastic room.
He is behind artificial glass and under flickering fluorescent lighting.
The air is in constant flux around him.
There are tubes coming out of him: full of poisoned crystal liquid.
The floor boards are creaking under his weight and the radiator pings, pings.
I talk to him all the time, but I’m not sure he ever listens.
He seems to constantly ignore me,
Or, he has better things to do.
I incessantly grind my teeth.
I always see holes where the stars should be.
Every time he breathes, worlds collide.
He is a shrine to a wooden womb.
I kiss him on the forehead and he falls asleep.
In my arms, raw and frantic.
A single teardrop, but its painted red.
As the angels wait for the air to splinter, they begin to cry.
It is too late,
He is gone.
A-Typical Night Out
Humanity sickens me.
It never ceases to disappoint.
Let’s just kill them all and then dance on their graves.
Let’s pull out their thick red entrails and feed them to each other.
Let’s make one unending, heaving mass of breathing sweating screwing flesh.
But blood and meat.
And you think we are so special.
And watch the feeding frenzy.
Lost faith and hushed indiscretions.
Listen to whispered telephone conversations with dribbling, inaccurate apologies.
Tight dresses, slender legs, too much make up, sparkly eyelids, too perfect its painful, overstressed hair, overpriced drinks, overblown libido, swollen testicles, misplaced machismo posturing, adjusting of tight t-shirt sleeves, genitally disappointing for the sighing onlooker.
Flashing lights, loud, repetitive musical discharge, churned out by the faceless for the empty headed.
I will see you at the end of everything.
When we can hold hands and watch these fuckers burn.
A Standard Dystopian Model
Flesh Eating Bacteria
Basic Rate Tax
The Lost Generation
Paedophiles in Nurseries
Paedophiles on the Internet
Paedophiles in Playparks
Antiseptic Sterilising Fluid,
Too Cold, No Cold Weather Allowance.
Decaying, Decrepit Flesh
The Rank Smell of Piss
Adult Sanitary Underwear.
Brush it Under the Carpet,
Hide it From
PVC, Wipe-Clean Seating
Ragged Cuts Exposing Naked Flesh
The Scarred Walking Dead
Haunted by IV Drips
Brain Aneurysm, Blood-shot Eyes
Preachy, Pretentious Poetry
Crying in the Streets
Empty Plastic Selection Box Containers
Stolen Prescription Pads
The Piss-Stained Homeless,
Mandatory Life Sentence
Consciously Minimalist Sentencing
Blood Stains in the Rain
A Murdered Rainbow
A Culpable Homicide
A Tax Rebate
Too Many Forms,
Blame the Red Tape
Terms and Conditions
Read the Small
Kidneys Shut Down.
Sold to the Highest Bidder.
Along with the Banks.
Lie Decomposing in the Ground
There Is No Heaven.