My Crumbling Moral Code
hard to crack but crumbled straight
my heart pumps blood around my plate
to buy one’s love interest a chocolate with a very human centre
I live a limpet of deceit
Jangle all the rules with pocket sized thumbs
Clandestino on your journey
droplets red suggest infirmity
Is it wrong to have a bride in every port?
Don’t touch meat or Nestl? but numb with white washed bloodstained
Erythroxylon coca
liquid lunch for a competitive liver
I live by the book that I threw in the river
this is great! it is so true. you don’t touch nestle. which river did you throw the book into? you might be able to get it back.
By the way! Don’t know if you’ll read this on this Sunday day but… a scribbled note left under your door.
I am going to the union
Because there’s power in it
Join me.
3pm Onwards.
well I may just join you for a liquid lunch
Nice comments! Sarcasm! I am not interested in your habits. Tom Paulin wouldn’t stand up in the middle of Newsnight Review, look in the camera and say “Benny if you’re watching I’ve left some pat? for you and I’m getting a lift so see you at four yeah?”
you mentioned a union and I’m sorry for my last comment if this is a university/student website and I’ve just insdulted you!
they are talking about a PUB. It is funny because I know Tom Paulin’s sons and I can imagine him talking to them through the telly, in my school days. Though I do not think he would have offered them pate. They were totally delinquent and would have benefited from going to a union, even a pub union. I do not think that Tom Paulin could stand up at the end of Newsnight Review - have you seen how he intertwines his legs when he crosses them. He would fall on his face and his pate would go uneaten and his world would fall to disarray. I think that you should write the ballad of newsnight review.
Hey Dr!
Is it still alright for you my books round tonight? If you can’t then I could cycle to your open surgery and collect them personally
let me know
G
Doctor Aches,
You are dipping your surgical gloves into the wrong wounds. This is not Newsnight. If you want Newsnight then watch Newsnight. Don’t ever mistake me for Newsnight again or my temper will flare. The last man who confused me for a current affairs program lost both of his legs. I will give you this one and only warning, Aches:
Confuse me with Newsnight again, if you will… but just make sure that your Nurse has the scalpel and MRI devices on stand by.
I am not Newsnight. And it wasn’t an invitation to a P U B, either. It was a poem. About spring. I get angry when people don’t understand my art!!! Just ask Olivia Smith. My art! My art!
Ablett.
I think it is mock anger.
Like the mock turtle - he weeps he weeps! He weeps petrol onto his fist, breaks your nose and sets fire to your face!
You will kill me Ablett.
Though this particular one isn’t your art, is it.
Here’s one of my own:
This blighted noon remembers crimes
that stained the fourth days noble arch
the infant grows a filthy appetite for violence
his roots latch roughly into perfect skin
penetrating your veins with its own stubborn tubes
such a sight it was to watch
the moon screamed murder and the scientist laughed