#bobdylan?

Hey Mr. Tambourine Man,

Dya know your name,

Is being used by family wrecking whores?

To postulate that they they’re smart,

To showcase they have a grand plan,

Perhaps for the greater good,

Perhaps, to vet more phalluses,

But I don’t think it will take,

A weatherman to tell,

Which way their pussies are blown.

Furniture

This morning, as I had my pretentious coffee,

I rifled through a pretentious magazine,

That came with the unpretentious papers.

Saw an advert for a store selling armchairs,

Their tagline was “Inspired by a dream”;

Amused, I wondered what furniture I’d churn,

If it were to be inspired by my latest dream,

A double homicide, a slasher on the lose,

With the knife dripping fresh blood,

Being chased by hungry hungry hippos.

Freud and Neitzsche, can you hear me?

Why do I always have red on my mind?

Yoga and Capoeira, Pilates and Jogging,

In Under Armour and no underpants,

Nothing brings more peace and joy,

Like dreaming of steel knife in windpipes.

Grown-up

I asked my daughter,

What dya want to be,

When you are a big girl?

Her answer made me

Want to dig my own grave,

On a stolen plot somewhere,

And jump in, without a tank

Of Oxygen or Oxycodone.

What an oxymoron!

I didn’t even want the grave marked,

For she said she wants to be a “socialite”.

Asswipe

“I am God”, said an asswipe.

Blew his horns, sounded from a pipe.

All you bloody did was see a shrink,

Who helped you get outside of hell’s brink.

Like a Jungle-man beating his chest,

You proclaim that you are the best.

You can walk on water,

Do things like in the gutter.

Make wine out of pee-pee,

Glamorous gold shit-shit.

Fucking whores on a schoolnight,

I’mma choke your windpipe.

Don’t mess with me, dickhead,

Might light fire to your fucking bed.

The Lemon-seller

Brazilian blow-out, bitch

45 minutes, to stomp you.

You and your cheap trash.

You got fucked, with your hymen intact.

Haha, so much for your party-planning.

Rained on your parade, did I?

I didn’t mean to, I just did my.

You’re a result of a bus collision,

You should be bludgeoned,

During an intervention.

The devil came to strike a deal,

Saw your soul and said no, thank you.

You ain’t going anywhere, losers,

You won’t even get new dentures.

That one is tapped out, burnt and drunk,

Find yourself a pimp and get on a bunk.

Mediocre pleasuring, that’s your style.

After two shots, you can’t go a mile.

Looked up your symptoms on WebMD,

Looks like you think too much of thee.

You got absolutely nothing on me, bitch!

Except that I am a wizard and you a witch.

If it were 1500s, they’d burn you brown,

You’d look shitty, even with your crown.

Gold-digging bitch, you didn’t dig very far,

Nobody’d give you a dime, even in hoe bazaar.

Slutty smouldering eyes, with lungs to match,

A starving hyena and leech won’t find you a catch.

Dunno where I am going with this, this infernal diss,

When you fuck a lemon-seller, you’d get strabismus.

Poison Pen Letter

There’d be a myriad of wise men and women on this platform, and I’d really appreciate some communication.

I am filled with rage, anger and suicidal thoughts over something as trivial as being cheated on.

I do not want to cry anymore, I do not want to be sad anymore. I do not want to think about it anymore. I want to erase the whole thing from my head. I have gone to the lengths of exploring (laughable) things like black magic, voodoo, witchcraft, electroshock therapy, lobotomy, hypnotherapy, what have you. I even stepped into a church, a mosque, a temple, a synagogue. Divine intervention didn’t work either. Medication, meditation, yoga, death metal, nothing worked. I drown myself in a sea of pills and alcohol. It hurts like a bitch. I can’t tell day from night, today from tomorrow. I have panic attacks in malls. I break down in public places. I have gone to psychiatrists and therapists and other horde of doctors. The only thing that keeps me calm is a hug from my husband and son. I’ve cried a river. I just have one simple wish now. I don’t want to be sad anymore.

So if there’s anyone out there who can help, please help a sister out. I am on the last rung of the ladder.

Unleash

Fuuuuuuccccckkkkk you!

Fuck me.

Fuck everyone.

Fuck arsonists.

Fuck firemen.

Fuck doctors

Fuck diseased.

Fuck lifeguards.

Fuck drowning.

Fuck pilots.

Fuck planes.

Fuck water.

Fuck boatmen.

Can I just get a wrecking ball,

Or a baseball bat,

And smash everything?

Or should I just walk in deep waters,

And attend my own sea burial?

**No offence to any professions. Respect. Just rants of a fucked up woman

Once again, I hit refresh,

A million times a minute.

Once again, I check the dial tone,

A million times a minute.

Once again, I hope against hope,

A million times, I cry.

Once again, I pray,

A million times, to make it right.

Once again, my heart breaks,

A million little pieces scattered.

What is it called,

When the left side of the body,

Feels heavier and hurting,

Like someone smashed it with hammer?

What is it called,

When catatonia takes over,

A perfectly healthy body,

Like all the blood is drained out?

What is it called,

When the eyes go dry,

But there’s loud sobs,

Like a whale separated from it’s calf?

What is it called,

When you are in a crowd,

But are left alone crying,

Like a war torn border?

What is it called,

When the shoulders are slumped,

Walking in the rain

Like a wet pup looking for a home?

Cells

On a rainy, dark night,

A grave was dug.

The wet soil, fret with worms.

Worms waiting to feast on one.

The trees dripped with cold drops,

The empty hole in the ground, soft.

Not a sound, except the scythe,

The corpse turned from red to blue,

Waiting for it’s last avenue.

The bats chittered, smelling the death.

Rain poured, like the sky was torn.

The mud, the dust, the coffin,

Lay in wait to be put in place.

No people gathered, no tears shed.

Images and water, rose like a stench,

From the already deceased and unclaimed.

Torn

Uppers and downers,

Calmers and sleepers,

All gone from the cabinet,

No herbs, no chemicals,

One day rolled into another,

And another, blanketed by fog.

Tears have run dry,

There is no home.

Heartache and heart attack,

Can’t tell the difference.

Pain runs through the veins,

Blood dries through the rains.

Only wish, someone takes the knee,

When the last breathe dies.

Hustle

Mad dogging,

Tea bagging,

Sleepy child

In the waiting.

Pills like Nurse Jackie,

Chicken and rosemary,

Munching, crunching,

Silver tooth glittering.

Shot glasses, lime wedges,

Shite music blaring.

Anxious and loving,

Caring and soothing,

Tossed out without thinking.

Anger and frustration,

Midnight masturbation,

Raging bitch manifestation.

Sleep now, little one.

Mama’s gotta be strong,

For you and them bones.

Breathe in, breathe out,

If it wasn’t for that drought,

There’d be water in the well,

And we’d kill the mademoiselle.