that,
excuse my language, is a load of absolute pissing shit stains.
My brain is gonna take more than some bloody positivity
to make it hang amongst the sparrows
and that’s ok I don’t mind
don’t try telling me that all this ‘yes I can and yes I will
and I deserve I deserve I deserve’ Oprah Winfrey bollocks
is gonna leap me into a place full of fantastic opportunity
where lungs are pink and snails sing harmonies,
I mean I’m too old for all that crap.
Instead I smile, alright, great, yeh, thanks.
She gives me a dark green notebook,
asks me to write down every negative thought
replace it with a positive one,
or at least a positive answer
to a negative question that plagues me,
such as:
Q. Why won’t my daughter speak to me?
A. She lets you see her kids, your grandkids, those roses.
Be thankful, be grateful, be happy. I am happy,
like the legs of a table.
Q. Why didn’t my parents try to find me?
A. They trusted god would look after me.
I have an inhaler, but I’m breathing, they were right.
Q. What if I rip my skin of and find
I’m made of cement and steel?
A. You won’t. You bleed red, bleed blood, you know that.
You are not a construction site.
marriage proposal (sylvia)
scott heard his mate steve’s missus
do a birthday speech for him at the pub
his whole heart felt treacherous
limbs stranded in ice-filled bathtubs;
all because he’d never dented knees
to ensure his name sounded with hot coals,
scott must tell sylvia she’s more than quickies
under duvets, more than rants and rigmarole.
in the kitchen he proposes with a white ring
made from rizla, he’ll get a proper one in time
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