I picked up a book of Keats poems
From a stack of books left out in the street to be taken.
I read his poems pretending to understand them,
Until I got to the back of the book,
Where the page was titled Light-hearted and nonsense,
And those I could understand. Those were like mine.
So, my poems are as good as the stuff Keats passed off as nonsense.
Tells me all I need to know, really, about my writing.
Fuck me up the arse and call me Mary,
I said out loud, I was so surprised.
And Auntie Janet dropped her tea cup,
into the saucer with quite a crash, and splash.
You don't get fucked up the arse, do you, hon,
said Janet. I'd thought you far to masculine for that?
First of all, hearing my old aunt say fucked up the arse
was really quite a trip and something I had to take in,
but, you know, it's a modern world, and it takes all sorts.
Why? Do you think it is a sin? I asked.
No, said Janet, with a twinkle in her eye,
I just found it hurt, when Simon tried it on me.
Oh, but you get used to it, we both said in unison, Janet and me.
And we laughed and laughed, sharing a ciggie, or two.
After that, she and I had a conspiracy that we shared,
and we were really much closer for it. Anal sex?
Who'd have thought? with Janet pushing 70 by then.
If someone commits an abominable act
against you, or your family,
you have no choice but to forgive them,
not because they deserve forgiveness,
but because you deserve peace.
Jesus, fuck me sideways, that was a surprise to me
Bread and wine in my hands down on my knees
I didn't spill a drop despite the tail wind catching me,
– body & blood, you know –
even if it was a little difficult finding my mouth rocking to and fro.
Jesus, Maria, Sister, George,
Did you Brides of Christ not know what the guys were up to?
Surely, you must have had a clue?
Were you looking the other way for a reason,
Or did the divine spirit completely desert you?
Oh no, god moves in mysterious ways,
Letting the priesthood be filled with the gays
When apparently, it’s against what the good book says,
Leaving them only the boys that come into their gaze.
You believe mystical bullshit,
You talk dreamed up mythical bullshit,
You facilitate bullshit happening,
More lives ruined than saved.
Those who die young
Die with much fanfare, and whaling, a gnashing of teeth
Those who die at a grand old age,
Die with a whimper and a silent exhale of breath.
Do you ever wonder what went wrong with life,
when the only, “good morning” you ever get
is from your Apple watch?
That wasn’t quite what I was promised from birth, you can’t help but think.
Grow up, meet your soul mate, have a family.
Buy a house. Get a dog. Get a second car. Perhaps a beach shack.
Grow old together.
So many people are alone in the world, how did I end up as one of them, goes through your mind?
But still, I have Apple watches in an assortment of colours.
Look, this one matches my eyes.
It’s just a shame I have never had someone to tell me that.
Can an Apple watch tell me I am beautiful?
Pat me on the back?
We’re flying to the moon,
And we’re celebrating the fact,
New giant step, and all that,
As the earth is practically in ruins,
Or heading there fast.
‘They’ haven’t said as much,
But I suspect going to the moon,
Is a good, financial opportunity,
And I wonder if they want to do to it,
What they have done down here.
So, we could end up with two
Balls of garbage,
Seemingly without a care,
That no one can go and live on Mars,
any time soon.
My mother told me that Christianity was
love thy neighbour, love one another.
That’s it. That’s what it is. That’s what it is about.
It isn’t anything else. It is that simple.
That was what my mother taught me.
And we go to church at Xmas and Easter,
to be together and to sing songs.
Because that’s what we do.
There is a certain joy in being together,
and doing that.
Loving thy neighbour.
I am the creature that the dual messengers of Satan created. Arthur Batson, and Olive Joan Gregson.
Arthur Batson was a pig,
“Why are you sitting next to Josh Grant, Gareth, I thought you had better taste.”
I’ve never met a boy so bedevilled with behavioural problems, as Josh Grant.
Arthur Batson was a pig.
in his nylon suits and his coiffured hair, all that was missing was the mauve rinse. Were there cravats?
Every day in grade six there was a battle of wits, you know which is fine, but I was a little boy.
Arthur Batson was a pig.
He lived at Maud Street Balwyn. Maud Batson more likely. Did you fancy me as a 10 year old, Maud Batson? Was that the problem?
Olive Joan Gregson was a first class bitch.
“I worry about you turtle, so slow,” she’d say. “I don’t know what on earth you could ever do, you are just not good at anything, are you turtle.”
Chances are she was borderline insane.
I’ve never been good at anything. There you go. I am the person you created. Are you pleased with yourselves, Maud Batson, and Olive the Witch?
Chances are that Olive Joan Gregson was borderline personality disorder.
I'm standing in a huge, empty theatre and I am yelling that out from the stage.
"Are you pleased with yourselves? With what you created? Well, are you? Bitch and pig?"
The bitch lived until she was 99, that is usually the death knell for cunts like her.
Olive Joan Gregson was a first class bitch.
“The Pig was a little younger. Some say he died from AIDS. But I have neither had that denied, or confirmed.”
I know I have been loved by many people
thought of as special, as the best, even,
gorgeous, smart, lovely people,
I was very lucky and loved,
but, many of those people are now dead,
so what the fuck does all of that mean now?
Tell me that?
