Monday, 14 April 2014

The Oaf

Inside the head of The Oaf
I saw a thousand grunting spastics
Gurning and wanking
And their faces were all mine.

The Oaf says:
Writing is for poofs,
Poetry is bollocks,
And -
Who the fuck do you think you are?

The Oaf always sits at the back.
The Oaf always fries things.
The Oaf likes boredom because boredom leads to
And alcohol lives there.

The Oaf walks:
Slouchy, slightly too slowwwly
And -
Checks his phone. So what?

The Oaf has a gorm.
The Oaf has admiration for his stomach fat.
The Oaf is waging a secret war against
Because I am here.

Inside the head of The Oaf
I saw the spines of a thousand books
Chewed and malformed
And the books were all mine.

The Oaf says:
Write no words,
Draw no metaphor,
And –
You are not what you think you are.

The Oaf knows the power of fast attack.
The Oaf never tries things.
The Oaf likes whoredom because whoredom leads to
And alcohol is there.

The Oaf walks:
Deliberately fast, frantic, frenetic
And –
Runs the road, red hot.

The Oaf was not born.
The Oaf will never admit the fact that
The Oaf is clearly, indubitably,

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