Thursday, 7 March 2019



First, well, there was because,
and just of course,
they’re both here in dumb ass double trust
fuck minus give a toss all adds up to loss,
because, because, look out, it’s Christmas: 
He’s on holiday, honey roasting nuts,
she’s bare chested and hasn’t got the guts,
to lie two-faced on frigid hotel bed,
crisp three sheeted to the wind:
solitary, hell raiser, strip jack naked, 
snap back, snap chat,
and just where in hell have you been?
The booze flies through
his toxic cancered brain,
tweet text sweet messengers
dash, dot-dot-dot, dash again,
sending him your one-syllable harbingers
and, oh, emoticon, alibis, alibis,
my husband and his nest of spies,
is next of skin to open crotch panty lies,
‘he’s tracking my every move’, she cries,
then dies and he flaccid sighs,
letting Ishmael
hammer another nail 
into the great white whale.

Next came peace, where all is well,
just before a 12th round, seconds out bell,
any fuckwit might have pounded ass
well of course, because it’s just rehashtagging trash;
he should’ve counted out a one fingered guess:
one times minus wrong adds up to more or less.
Summer falls upon the estate
and he’s home to rest,
she peaceful watching Mary Mary,
see how the garden’s growing
much smoking grass bladed by the DHSS
 to raise a finger would be unwise at best,
when she’s on the make you sick,
walking the streets with one stick,
semi dressed stripper, posting bare breast
arrangements to meet on the never never,
both thinking the other is some clever.
But, oh, here’s another cartoon grin
my husband and the state he’s in,
wanky leg, my spine and your weak chin,
‘will collapse the house of cards’, she cries
then croaks when he comes then dies,
letting Ishmael
hammer another nail 
into the great white whale.

Lastly, and because well it’s, after all, a good fit,
she’s wishing or hoping to end the shit,
or even a message to Michael, let’s face it
if it be that, his slack brow furrowed get-a-grip
on the slippery wet tongued situation,
convinced of some simple explanation
as to what this might be all about?
‘Good God’, she said, ‘Give him a shout’:
At the end of days, some desert hazed
silence loud on his mind plays,
but she’s satchel packed back to cruel
snail pacing, the way to carboard cut-out school.
The hill is steep, the path was long,
from there to here and all is wrong,
she needs to still her sticky tongue.
Sickly text will perform the trick,
transform him into pervert prick
and ‘this isn’t me’, she cried:
But, oh, here’s one last farewell tag,
ashes to ashes, Bowie sporting drag
the missus being young and skilled
in noughts, it is over, all is killed,
broken beyond hope. She has spoken
exchanged one for one and one more token.
His nose is on her trail,
Move over, darling, 
move over Ishmael,
he might, one day, hammer his own nail
into the great white whale.

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