Blah Blah Blah

Instead of typing the mundane
up and edited,
I like to go at it
as if I had a fourteen year old
cunt weeping for me
whilst I ran through the bushes
of some immortality worse
than yours.
Allowing the tense to be
incorrect, and the delivery
to be all wrong.
It is not fine poetry
but when the beers knock you
it's good to hit the keys...
say nothing at all,
but, maybe mention
a little slice of life...
Why do you worry
about what you write?
The truth comes out
when you really rape
the page.
The ground shudders
and the readers
either hate you
or love you.
More often than not
you pull the duvet over your head.

Hell, this is nonsense,
but it feels good to keep
on going.
Push on, and on and on.
You can all send me photographs
of yourselves,
or kill yourselves
or do something with yourselves
that the gods would have
never expected.

This is me at a mere 8 pm
drunk and spunky
whilst my dear cooks dinner
and I sit here taking it all out
on the keyboard
and you.

This artform is a sincere joke
it means nothing.
Just another massage,
which is all we need...
We are more two-dimensional
than you could ever fathom.
It's sad, but it is exciting
all the same.
Keep doing it,
keep going.
Write it all down
from your morning
until you pass out,
just don't expect any fucker
to care