17. CW’s poem to AL

May 16, 2018

The Male Eunuch, by Chris Walsh

I fry four thick sausages,

two eggs,

broil some beans,

toast some toast,

butter it thick,

wash it down with beer,

and listen to Blue Oyster Cult.

I enjoy

The perfect

Nicorette desert.

I’m exiting

As carefully and slowly

as possible.

Taking all due care.

Responsibly.

Ethically.

It’s an contractual obligation

of being born

longer and longer ago.

Urgent review required.

Rebuild?

Or demolish?

There is a clause

kicks in

under

predesignated criteria.

Has he taken the piss too long?

Has he handed down misery?

Moreover,

did it deepen like a coastal shelf?

How many hearts has he scorched?

How many daft things hath he thought?

Sausages.

I’m one of those utter bastard men

you hear about

more and more these days.

I oppress life,

women

and children

by being alive.

I push;

aggravate

until things metastasise,

get out of control.

Listen,

I want my death and eat it.

I cut my sausages up

Like a toddler.

I’m still here.

BAD!