don’t think twice, it’s all right

with your hydrangea fresh
clean skin and vigour
you’ve decided in that ‘lol…ok?’
way of loping and pissing at the same time;
since you have exhausted yourself,
you are free to let me go

oh thank you,
you rolled up swaggie
a urine stamped vixen
a hit-and-run wannabe

I can’t wait to see
your bourbon sponsored ticker tape parade
the maternal faces out for your comeback trail;
they’ve always held expectantly to your legacy
which you promote with every earnest smile
and sentimental facebook post

but wait! the booze is discarded for wellness
and the grannies clutch their form guides
tighter to their chest;
they thought you an outside chance
and without their specs,
can’t see the dark horse
maiming her way to victory

I could strangle every one of these simpletons
with a plate on the stove and the tale of a girl
smoking a dart and blowing fine manners

they don’t want to uncover
the dust ‘round the telly;
they’ve got their view
and I’ve got mine,
and mine’s not a quick exposé,
of rotten walls and slick-backed morality

mine is lengthy and suffocating
A Country Practice in a mineshaft,
zombied figures crawling into graves
after the midnight shift was done

I couldn’t sleep without the startle
of a need I wasn’t meeting;
a colicky six footer
spitting a tantrum in my ear

I climbed through so many windows
in the hope I’d be rescued by sympathy,
but grannies sleep through the night
and booze wears off by breakfast

so bask in the light which blinds me
with your Stepford-dyke du-jour,
as you win every glistening ribbon
every housewife’s heart in a frame,
for the punters are none the wiser