E.Coli, Listeria, Bifidus Digestivum, or is that one made up?

These are my brothers and sisters!

A billion times removed, sure, but we’re made of the same junk.

I don’t really want to slaughter my kin,

Or 99.9% of them, at least.

Like family, you’ve got to let the right ones in.

So no, Dettol, I won’t accept your bathroom tyranny,

I shall not practise germ warfare.

With soap they wash away, to the sea, to the sea,

And if some choose to stay, invade me, make me stronger,

Make yourselves at home!

I’ll keep you while I’m healthy, and no longer.

But then I get sick and it’s all “Please don’t make a scene

in the public areas, sir.

Would you take something, make body and mind serene?

“Don’t show us you’re ennui or nausea, diarrhoea or depression,

Irritable polar or bi-bowel syndrome,

We have pills for that, sir, we have a succession.

“Prozac, Valium, Listerine, Advil, Ritalin, Benzedrine,

These are your friends.

Doctors that tell you otherwise are just downright mean.

“They’ll let you suffer through funks and slumps, and splits with girlfriends,

Terribly messy affairs.

It is far better to be up to your eyeballs than at your wits’ ends.”

But aren’t the ends of your wits the interesting bits?

Proof that your wits are too much for their confines?

That Prozac you’re munching is the same as what’s given,

To caged tigers to make them forget they’re not bovines.

last night i dreamt i was burgling your house. i met you on the stairs and said ‘im burgling your house, how does that make you feel?’ and you said ‘fuck you you fucking motherfucker. i refuse to critique the two or three mediocre poems you will inevitably write about this experience’. i think this was a bit mean of you and you should apologise.

I’m quite annoyed with tumblr for making poems come out as double lined. Can’t really be bothered faffing about with the formatting, but I might have to, eventually.

90% Sure You’re a Cunt

I’m ninety percent sure you’re a cunt.                                              

Now I know what you’d say if we weren’t at war,                                         

You’d chastise me for being too blunt.                                              

‘It’s just such a vile thing to say,                                                        

vaginas aren’t disgusting, to be feared, mistrusted.                         

Germaine says they’re a fine place to pray.’                                    

Oh balls to your half-baked feminism,                                              

I’ve actually got one, and you actually don’t,                                    

and saying it is sexual weaponism.                                                   

But let’s not get lost in semantics.                                                    

Why don’t we get back to the main event,                                       

Which is you and your nocturnal antics.                                                       

I hope you had fun in that plastic bag,                                              

In some field in the arse-end of nowhere,                                        

With some FHM tart that you found in the crowd,                           

All fake tan, tight bum and no body hair,                                          

While I was at home nursing flu.                                                       

There was no one to wrap me in blankets and tea,                          

So I played songs to remind me of you.                                            

You returned to my door, looking ruddy and brown                         

After love, with her stain on your skin.                                                         

You smelled a bit funny but seemed honest enough,                        

So like a fool I said ‘come on in’.                                                

The wine that night tasted sweeter,                                                  

The foreplay did not seem so clumsy or cold.                                   

To each other we were lover and heater.                                         

Can a memory retain its beauty,                                           

Can you hold it up as proof there’s a point,                                      

If you know the event to be false?                                                     

If you know you were in the company of a cunt.                              

I don’t know what demon has bent him,                                           

But the smiling face of evil wants me back,                                     

And I just want the box-sets I lent him.                                             

I’m ninety percent sure you’re a cunt                                               

And mine is an eminently rational mind.                              

If you’re holding out hope for that underdog                                                            

Chance, then I’m afraid you are in quite a bind.      

DISCLAIMER: Brazil Dance Girl is not an FHM tart with no body hair. She is quite lovely and clever (even if she got on my tits a bit). I know what the internet’s like, I don’t want her seeing this and getting offended. Its artistic license, more what i was looking for than what i found.