Monday night meat-market

This is life.

This is living.

Moist your lips,

warm-up your tongue,

let the music

all the way in.

All The Small Things.

Almost essential.

Human contact,

your arm brushes hers

(brushes theirs?)

Do you feel that?

Feel that warmth,

that closeness,

to another person,

just for a minute.

Do you see her?

The way she dances?

Look at those tits.

Go on over

kiss her now

fuck her later

What's her name?

Doesn't matter.

Closing time.

The dancefloor empties

can you see her?

She wandered off before.

Well, what's she look like?

Can't remember.

This is your life.

That you're living.

I'm a Fucking Poet

DVD boxsets

and books stacked high,

clothes drip drying

while others pile dirty,

the couch last seen

some time in June.

Empty bru bottles

and unclean dishes,

crumbs from bread and cakes

and God knows what else.

Empty chocolate wrappers

and scribbled down stanzas.

Soaking wet hair

and ratty old jeans,

cheap yellow pen and

ripped notebook pages.

Empty co-codamol packs

and slightly gay hairbands.

Sitting in the carnage

comfortable in its

"blatent imagery"

instead of cleaning,

he sits and writes

to show he is an artiste dah-ling.

Enjoy destroy

Enjoy destroy

take a bat to it.

The thoughts you killed

these past few years rot

and return, to

fester a little

more and burn

again, like you want.

Enjoy destroy

you chose this after

all. Happiness

was too close and you

can't allow

that in. Misery:

a life choice that

must be adhered to.

Enjoy destroy

this viscious cycle

tightly hold on

to absolutely

nothing, convinced

it is important.

Enjoy destroy

the rest of your life.