I’d like to write a poem.
I’d like to write a poem.
I’d like to write a poem.
I think of ignoring my
aesthetic
and just fucking someone,
anyone
with a flat stomach
and a half-nice face…
but I feel sick.
I’m not selling my soul again
for my cunt,
using someone
I
don’t want
just to shut her up
Oh look. Sex again. You silly girl.
What about, oh, capitalism? Terrorism? Child abuse? War?
What about wankers in BMWs What about inhumane cities Concrete
fag-can vases What about levelled playgrounds What about divided-up
sold-off fucked-over parklands What about
my arms not reaching What about
all those chick-lit girls
and all that
liposuction
and Madonna’s volumised face
and Facebook with its face-off bad-party one-liner non-
conversation, with its
unmerciful yells
Everyone has a pen
Everyone has a pen
Everyone has a pen
(First published in Cottonmouth)