Poem: Punching Mirrors

Punching Mirrors

Inside my thoughts are prurient and perverse,

My appetite voracious for that which will not nourish.

Outside the sun does nothing but make me sweat,

And the fresh air avoids me.

By this I can tell that she’s coming back.

This is the warning that she’s coming back.

Then I hear her sing a song of symphysis pubis,
Screaming she’s here to cleanse the frigid.

Blowing a paper gale she mutes my tinnitus,
And it becomes instantly easier to fuck.

But it’s not all teenage musk.

Because she damages as much as she fixes.

She’ll be showing off to Shiva whilst booting through my ulcer.
She'll knit me a fair-isle sweater made from my multicoloured innards.
She'll clear the un-uniformed fat but never let me dress for dinner

And sometimes it’s hard to be grateful.

Even though I know I should be grateful.
So what is a girl to do?

Batten down the hatches and go back to Dr Jonson?

Or roll out the red carpet and try to fuck Dr Jonson?

Or clean the cat piss off the old carpet and try to forget Dr Jonson?

Either way this fucking-fucked-up failure of a dichotomy,
Is going to go off in my face.

So it is probably better to be prepared to swallow.