Poetry is a great way to vent some spleen, in a relatively benign manner. Having loved and lost too much, there are many sheets of paper lying around my house, covered in bitter, tawdry rantings of questionable quality. I found one of these today…it went on for EVAH!!!! Thank god I have done some work on myself over the last few years and no long get caught in these infantile spasms. Much.
Anyhooooo….I have pulled out some bits from the rant, tidied them up, and turned them into a poem of adequate quality. Because, after all, other people’s bitterness can be a very enjoyable read, in a Schadenfreude kind of way.
Thanks to Peter Flatman for creating the special book-cover for me. Librarians rock my world!
I hate her
How dare she presume to love you?
I hate the thought of her mousey little hands
on your chest
Her mousey little mouth
around your cock
And her boring, boring conversation.
And her boring, boring life.
How dare she come to your shop
and piss up the walls?
Come into your life
and piss up your heart?
Get in your bed,
and ask you to piss on her?
I want your shower disinfected.
I want to get back in there, with you
And make love in that irritating bed.
And have you fuck me up against the kitchen counter,
while we both smoke,
disturbing your red-backs.
I confess. My greed is appalling.
And I am tired.
Loving you is the most exhausting thing
I have ever done
No wonder she can cope.
She limits it to two sessions a week
And sticks to her suburban routine.
I want some semblance of sanity
The key to my disturbed heart.
Because you changed the locks
in your nefarious wanderings and sneaky stalking.
I am in bed now, unable to sleep,
having fainted today, like a consumptive, Bronte heroine.
I wear pyjamas and the ring you gave me.
Trying to feel close to you,
through a cheap piece of jewellery.
“I’ve got your class-pin, but she’s got you.”
With her mousey charms,
And endless energy for pleasuring you.
I note, however,
that she is yet to bake you that apple pie.