Last time I checked we had free speech. Right then, shut your face: I'm speaking. My problem's urgent, yours can wait. Quit your whinging. I've got complaints. I'll saw that barrista in half with the edge of my donor card. (Soy! Soy! It's three letters!) We layered the acetate printouts of our DNA. Vetted the patterns and popped champagne and start Googling the baby names. A green field, a clean white tent. Now that's what I call entertainment. Push red for the autopsy and I'm choking back my jealousy cos why can't I be famous? Shared baths then spontaneous sex. Foucault and Baudrillard shelved next. Swap out the haiku sent by text for guest rooms with flat pack pull out beds. Quantising cum shots in our heads. Yawning at chrome vibrating eggs. Leave toenail clippings where they fall. Walk by the junk mail in the hall. Groan at the sunshine, up and out, making each carcinoma count. Slow waltz around supermarkets with hooves in shoes clenched up like fists. So boil it off, you'll see what's left: bad luck, tough shit, goodnight, God bless. Now all you've leased reverts to us. Your children's hair will turn to rust. All your snow-driven birds of love: besemened pigeons playing dove. One day I'll be turfed out of my grave to join dust clouds floating in space. Treblinka and the Vatican: their motes sweet-waltzing, holding hands. And those black jokes will all make sense hoovering us up in increments. Bye bye.
Статистика страницы на pesni.guru ▼
Просмотров сегодня: 1
Гуру Песен