Mutant Monsters, Creepy Cooking, The Perfect Home and More: A Poetry Collection



Meet the licker

As he licks your lips

Lips sick, sickly sweet

Teat on lip, garish feat

Such a feat with such big feet

Huge clawed feet fit for stinking streets

Stink, pink, colour of kids

Kids, just one kid, she’s a prig

She’s eating her feast

Fast beast eats fast

His lips on their tips

Suck of the children they sip,

Licking its lips



Clean. Clean.

Look it’s clean

Dishes washed, oven sparkling

Something you don’t do

Why can’t you do it?



If you loved me, you’d do it

Twenty years and not a cent

Worthless, you are

Useless, selfish cunt

Bench washed, clothes folded

Of course you can’t do it


Can’t Stay Here Any Longer

Some nights I stay awake

Waiting for the perfect

Goddamn house

But you don’t want it,

You plead and you sob instead

For gifts of useless shiny silver

You watch me

Tap fixed, clothes ironed

While you just sit

And watch

And wait

I don’t see you any more

Please, darling

Come back

Your house is finally clean.

the bar

Crowded Man (inspired by John Brack)

Part I: The Bar

Crowded evening at the Crown,

Making our way through the hordes,

Lager for me, never unique,

I watch you watching her,

Watching me, well I never,

Since you never noticed me,

Your silken long hands are

weary of never ageing,

I sip my ale with miniscule

sips, as I want to end

the date that

will never be

Collins Street 5 p.m. by John Brack

Part II: The Street

Seeing the unknowing man,

The un-noticing, inconsequential

Quite frankly forgettable man,

Passing through a sea of hips,

Of fast moving old shits,

Never a smile cracking his lips,

But it matters not,

To the man passing unnoticeably,

Blue eyes or green eyes,

His height’s so-so,

Let me live my life,

As I unknowably know



Titters and gasps

Blend in amidst the masses

As the young girl

With the braided hair

(pink streaks)

sashays down the red



The silence echoes

Except for

The furious mutterings

Of a certain Kim K

As the young girl

Turns into smoke

burns red

and sets the carpet



“Her performance was smoking,”

states the ghost of Roger Ebert

as he smokes his cigar.


Italian Gorgonzola Chicken

You very gently run your fingers just under the skin

Uncovered, scraping up the brown bits

Skimming off the fat

Slices of skin cut up

“Carve the thigh and pass the sauce,” you add,

“It’s especially good”

Bitten Nails

Bitten nails

Garish non polish

Barely they cover the surface


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