Friday, 30 October 2015

This is kind of a joke

A man crossing his legs like a woman
A woman crossing her arms like a man
What does it matter but
Stand up, for the burning comedy of BBQ sauce capitals, never
Neglect your grandma
She is the supply for our op shopping habits 
Our vintage store ventures
Without her
Without her clothes
Without the odour that comes with them

They will never be able to sell detergent in those 
Big coloured bottles with
Laundry towels rolling around
Life is a myth and the tail of death
Keeps chasing itself
A showcase of skeletons
The clever ones will always expect the expected; feel sorry for our mothers
No one should wake up with dishes to do
Incoming outcomes

Hold the line, run your mouth
In expensive poverty
Running out of room to run
Agents of free will
Willing terror, tragedy, and tears
Tomorrow is never new
So remember to renew
Your library books

Spoiled milk for spoiled children
Milkshakes when shaken
Conventional dialogue
Empty houses
Empty heads
Empty the money jar
For more emptiness
You are poor
Because you deserve to be

Skeleton flowers immerse 
Blatant abuse
Goodnight to irrational men and halfhearted women
It is easier to straighten your cards on a hard surface
Crazy coldness
Shiver to sip on lifeless coke flatter than
Your mother’s forehead

Cracking screens
Like butt cracks
Hang up phones
For hang up lines
Pick up lines
For laundry madness
This doesn’t make any sense
You’re still reading it