Hatstand

i was moaning about my stubbie holder

and how it required both my hands to work

my wife looked at me like i was some kind of twat

and said write a poem about that ya jerk

and so i did, i wrote

i wrote a truck full of horse wank

delivered in the dead of night

to an address not far from yours

mate

two men alighted yon truck of pony spooge

and proceeded to the task at hand

someone else had done all the hard work

they grabbed shovels hoses and sand

as they poured this equestrian money shot

on the front lawn in question

the driver said to his offsider

"do you think anyone cares anymore?"

his mate shook his head and said

"no."

and so they continued their task

there would be no glory

there would be no bask

that night as i wove a fanciful tale of lesser demons

disguised as common household things

there was one pretending to be an electric kettle

nothing to do with mirrors nothing to do with strings

i told it like i believed it all

and it has nothing to do

nothing to do with stubbie holders

every breath that passed my lying lips

every single untrue gasp

every libelous roll of my tongue

a reality harder to grasp

i laced every word with outrageous misfortune

bullshit detectors were overloading and exploding

from bloody Timbuktu to the moon

all my smirks and barefaced cheek

i was trivially pursuing negateful issues

uninsulated insecure insincere and unsure

eye rolling coughing and such

when in all honesty, fact and reality

it didn't amount to much

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