by Julia Coleman
I often find myself wanting to offend
the religious, the sensitive, and those who just need to be
everybody’s best fucking, smiley faced friend.
I find I want to smack their dopey faces with words like
Feminism, Cunny, or incredulous lines like
‘God? What are you stoooopid?’
The ‘happily’ married
shit they have tarried
and for what? A lifetime of annoying habits
and pretending they don’t yearn, or yearning anyway, to no effect?
Press eject…put it behind you, start again or
just sit there moaning to ya girlz, drinking up your Lambrusco
what a fucking fiasco.
Finding yourself offended? Great! Settle down, I just got started
on those who write love poems, those teddy bear tributes
you know, the one who holds a rose in his teeth
sits his fat fluffy arse on a red satin pillow, says ‘Be Mine..’
He can go fuck himself right?
Pull out his stuffing, dead-head that rose
or fuck it, be his
you twat faced, dim brain girl.
What about those other romantics?
Those squawking ‘authors’ of chicken feed
keeping their avid readers on a tight lead,
writing their heroines as wanna-be warrior
always saved in the end by some guy they will never be
honest with but honestly I couldn’t be sorrier, and for sure I’d rip their bodices right off
herd them naked into town squares, douse them in tepid bath water – sans bubbles
see if that helps their flow.
And those literary sex kittens, once bitten
Me-Fucking-Oww it hurts to even think about them
the ones who ‘tear frantically at his zipper’ – I like to think there might be
at least one time his only Member gets stuck in it, and they end up in A&E.
No ‘I HEART YOU’ valentine for her this year
she will have to give him the ‘I HURT YOU’ one instead
the one she was saving for the divorce.
Now that’s my kind of happy ending.