Wednesday, July 13, 2005


sitting on my night-line,
sweating with the exertion
of brushing mouldy teeth
glistening in glasses
and trashy novels
lying beside my bed.
With dead hamsters
and gerbils
going around in the gutter
and I utter an obscene cry,
"Why do I have to be a nutter?

a coelacanth, in case you were wondering
Shut away from the un-seen, unclean world
and the sordid ice-creams
served in laboratories
where frontal lobotomies
are performed on unsuspecting coelacanths."

Back to my smelly pants
and the stink from my socks
which would destroy a tenement block
and could get me sanctioned by the UN
for being a potential weapon of mass affectation.
That's the problem with synthetic fibres
and the vibrations of a whole day's loafing.

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