Although you loved him, you also reveled
in his humiliation, when his older surety
was ridiculed, his place in the world...a schism, irreparable.
You, a witness, unable to acknowledge
the pleasure in this administered damage,
instead admired his footsteps, your fledgling
predator to forever protect his greatest pretense.
However, from under those feathers of yours',
Swan and Peacock both have eyes of stone
and flashing infrequently is the pleasure you take
from what you never would condone.
Thursday 18 February 2010
Nanny Nomore needs a vacation -
Ah, provocation? Fed up all the way to the spitting top valve
and way down deep to the loose bottom sphincter
of love, a-more-ray, romancing stones, and throngs,
busty lusts, a bit of the other, gone so terribly terribly wrong?
Now it's all gall, stones, pebbles, and rocks to throw
at boys and girls who got your goat. Baaah! Cheese.
Ah-ha arseholes, and lactose-intolerant fleas! Go! Pray
tell - your very own story - and play nicely if you please!
Frankly, it's not that I'm not angry too, I'd just rather revive
a healthy, busty, lusty desire for Mmmm, Life!
than ratchet: either Songs of Praise, or hatchet
the fetid, putrid bile of a raging, lost, and long gone child.
This is not guile, nor much at all of wiseness.
It's simply tiredness. So sick of hearing hoofing pellets
of phlegmy tiny-minded gobbers, upset with a world in crisis.
Endless flaccid flourishes erecting inane or ignorant spit!
Go plant a tree! Save your save-the-world, save-my-soul diatribe,
and glue please. Stick it. And then may be, baby, I'll save mine.
Skidding useless shit all over the street, yelling, Look! I've no nappy!
Mother? Dear Earth! It's Insane! And over there: Where's my Daddy?
See? I'm really not so very happy - either,
so, dear venom spitting defecating bunch of adult turds
who pleasure themselves by taking sloppy aim,
I ask you to keep your St. inkiness pointed well away..
Grow up! Go get your train! Tell your story carefully!
Sensitively! Play nicely! I've 425 kids to tend to here already.
Don't you see? Dear grown ups – here's a curdled curd:
Frankly, I don't give a hoot - go tell it to the birds!
2008
'Go girl!' - Hulketta
'Where's my Crit?' - Hippo
'Oh dear oh dear' - Turtle
and way down deep to the loose bottom sphincter
of love, a-more-ray, romancing stones, and throngs,
busty lusts, a bit of the other, gone so terribly terribly wrong?
Now it's all gall, stones, pebbles, and rocks to throw
at boys and girls who got your goat. Baaah! Cheese.
Ah-ha arseholes, and lactose-intolerant fleas! Go! Pray
tell - your very own story - and play nicely if you please!
Frankly, it's not that I'm not angry too, I'd just rather revive
a healthy, busty, lusty desire for Mmmm, Life!
than ratchet: either Songs of Praise, or hatchet
the fetid, putrid bile of a raging, lost, and long gone child.
This is not guile, nor much at all of wiseness.
It's simply tiredness. So sick of hearing hoofing pellets
of phlegmy tiny-minded gobbers, upset with a world in crisis.
Endless flaccid flourishes erecting inane or ignorant spit!
Go plant a tree! Save your save-the-world, save-my-soul diatribe,
and glue please. Stick it. And then may be, baby, I'll save mine.
Skidding useless shit all over the street, yelling, Look! I've no nappy!
Mother? Dear Earth! It's Insane! And over there: Where's my Daddy?
See? I'm really not so very happy - either,
so, dear venom spitting defecating bunch of adult turds
who pleasure themselves by taking sloppy aim,
I ask you to keep your St. inkiness pointed well away..
Grow up! Go get your train! Tell your story carefully!
Sensitively! Play nicely! I've 425 kids to tend to here already.
Don't you see? Dear grown ups – here's a curdled curd:
Frankly, I don't give a hoot - go tell it to the birds!
2008
'Go girl!' - Hulketta
'Where's my Crit?' - Hippo
'Oh dear oh dear' - Turtle
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