Kite or Cunt
High as a kite
or
low as a cunt,
it’s the in-between that makes life so hard to live.
My Sad Drooping Poem
And this room gets colder as
I think of all the shags I lost, who
got away, who
pulled up their knickers and
said nothing,
disappointment and silence
in their pretty eyes.
But I’m drunk and
feeling empty
once more.
‘I chose beer over you, dear!’
‘I chose another wine, this time!’
I couldn’t get IT up,
whatever IT is,
and
I’m a lover,
not a fucker,
I just lay and belch,
I don’t say I’m sorry,
I’d never say that.
I have Jane Austen in my soul!
I am too sensitive for you!
‘Hey, see if you can get HARD
with Jane Austen in your soul,
huh?’
But so what, babe,
a climax is a split-second bliss,
like a bit of madness,
and anyway,
this poem
has already gone on
longer than that,
and some might say
long enough…
Try This
There’s no more jokes
about your face, about
your weight or your
inky eyes.
There’s no more light
on us, on where we
used to be, the place
we used to exist.
Our miracles are dumb and
only for us. You see we
don’t perform much
anymore.
But use your oils,
paint sunflowers,
cut off an ear and
give it to me.
Has that been done
before? I was only
trying to be
romantic.
Maybe just wrap your lips
around my life and
think of something
good to say.
Think of something
good.
