Monday, 27 July 2009

An Ode to Impatience

Like the stunned panicking Wobblermen

dancing in the garden of strife

I am the walking bollock

of inconsequence

My flats are plain and my plains are flat

yet sauce drips from the downs

(the ups, the downs)

as I trifle through this piss-take of

poetry, a juicy melon betwixt my thighs,

dripping yelps

"I owe you nothing" says the danger.

David McCullochs swoon around

the lifeless corpse of impatience,

crying "Debra! Debra!"

Mail me,

tell me,

kill me,

oh Debra.

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