8 out of ten cats wanna rub up against Jon Richardson

The poem is the way back machine

is the head-to-toe skin-tall Tardis removing you from this speck of existence to another

you wrote it because:

you were drunk

(applicable only to Persona A)

you are a peacock

(universally applicable)

it was funny and bad ideas are still ideas

and all ideas must be implemented in all possible worlds

this world is the only world possible for you

(applicable)

because it scoured and bleached the memory

and Jon Richardson would approve

(spottily applicable where you care to apply it)

not even because you slept through

and nothing else was going to get done that day

not everyone’s

not ever

predictive

of the diminution of results

from strenuous efforts

celebration

Where’s the marching band, where’s the baby grand

congrats card stuffed in my hand

I thought there’d be a fuckin’ sea of gin

climb up to the top board and dive right in

POEM: poison, fear me

I eat black mould and I thrive
poison, fear me
bears and snakes, don’t come near me
behind the wheel, but I can’t drive
the dream’s a dream of when I was alive

spiders know that I won’t kill ’em
the dentist gets bitten if he tries to fill ’em
nice girl that I used to be
met you, which was nice for you
’cause it meant you met me

bleach from the cupboard in the old toothmug
cum on the seat someone’s been giving it a tug
and I roll up in foisty blankets
phone in and use up some love
on a move in the game today