The flat swelters, my child sleeps on my lap,
all blubber and nappy and nothing else,
two hours into a full fathom sleep.

I flick through an anthology that tells
me what’s definitive in poetry,
I reviewed it but never had the balls

to commit crimes of flagrant honesty,
to scratch my balls in public, fart aloud
during the Islington dinner party—

the tone always careful and middlebrow,
though not exclusively white, middle class.
But what the fuck do I know? I’m from Slough.

I nurse my grudges carefully just as
I monitor my girl’s few hours of sleep
with mild discomfort while sat on my arse.

I let my shallow, pissy fits run deep.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    May 28, 2012 @ 07:40:26

    The third line seems rather familiar…was it inspired by the tempest.

    The word that stands out this time is honesty.
    If you’re writing in the first person you have to be honest or why bother.

    Somebody’s got to have come from Slough 🙂


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