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This poem is like a crumpled tissue.
It’s full of snot, piss and blood.
It is an opportunist
It ticks the right boxes
It has every letter of the alphabet
of otherness – even the plus.
This poem went to a good school
Carefully, it hedges its bets
Note to judges – it has all of
the correct mental health issues
Fuck, shit, piss, bollocks.
It even has Tourette’s!
It’s the first among unequals.
Strange how, this fucked up mess
of drug litter, blood and puss
the tedious road back and its
endless narcissistic sequels
pleases, even down at the pub.
It must be the new fashion
for over-sharing
Pam Ayers on crack
competitive victimhood.
This poem is no fool.
It uses its glottal stop like a club.
