Friday, 4 October 2013


Everyone Is Lying To You (Except Me)

When your parents say that
When you get your own house,
You can do whatever you want,
That’s a lie.

When teachers tell you that
When you grow up
You can mess about as much as you like,
That’s a lie.

When your friend, in quick breaths,
Tells you he’s had sex
With a hundred and ten girls
Well, you probably already know that’s a lie.

When a government minister tells you
In an interview
That s/he wants what’s best for you
Everybody knows that’s a lie.

When a priest, or a minister
Tells you that
You were born a sinner
I really hope you know that’s a lie.

When your parents tell you that
You were wanted
I’m afraid that, statistically speaking,
That’s quite likely to be a lie.

But, naturally, when a poet/singer
That you’ve never heard of,
Who knows nothing about you,
Tells you that everyone else is lying to you….
Well, that’s bound to be the truth.

When a poet/singer
That you’ve never heard of
Tells you that everything you’ve ever heard
Is a lie.
Well, you’ll just have to make up your own mind.

Cruel Little Bastards (Not Like Us)

Kids can be so cruel.
(They’re not like adults)
Did they say terrible things about you at school?
Did they say that you’d marry a man who,
Left alone in your bedroom, would try on all your bras?
On his head?
That’s the man of your dreams, they presumably said.

Kids can be so cruel.
I bet they beat you up every day at school
Just because you had an old-fashioned leather satchel.
Ironically, those satchels are now quite fashionable,
And the same little bastards that
Would have beat you up for having one,
Now beg to get one from their mums.

It’s funny, isn’t it?
Class dismissed.

Fuck You For Dying

Fuck you for dying before me
And leaving me
To deal with your overtly racist family
You said they weren’t racist and I never agreed
You said they weren’t racist, just a bit ignorant,
Not well-educated
Like you and me.
They are racist.
And fuck you for not being around for my
“I told you so” triumph.

Fuck you for dying and leaving me
To make small talk with your racist family
And think how I don’t have the courage to confront them about it,
Because it’s a funeral,
And how I would have told you
I hate funerals
And you’d tell me that was a ridiculous thing to say,
You’d say
Nobody likes funerals.
And I’d say
Altar boys do.
They get paid.
And you’d ask me if I ever got paid for being an altar boy,
And I’d change the subject.
Fuck you for not being here for that entertaining exchange.

Fuck you for dying without appreciating
How hard that would make things for me.
Normal things like eating Hula Hoops with cheese stuffed into the middle
Or making soap from the discarded remnants of used-up soap bars.
Or writing stupid poems.

Fuck you for dying without permission
For ruining all our death plans;
The yachting accident,
The falling comet
The misunderstanding with a mob boss
Who looked EXACTLY like you….

Fuck you
For dying first.

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