November 13, 2010

Bloody hell I think I might be okay..

three poems published, ta da
one about goldie locks, one about authority figures and one about carrying drugs over mountains and being fucked on a big wooden cross.

Whats more I'm not homeless, not homeless
Its making me me nausous, I behind in the studies but loving it, playing to my strengths not taking it too seriously that a bad grade makes me a worthless human being. Education will also be about other peoples ideas, there is nothing wrong with rejecting that sometimes.

My hall is yellow with a purple carpet I have a poster of a new york taxi and green wall hanging thing, a mirror, a lampshade and suddenly I'm in heavan. Ditch the battle for compensation, ignore the travesties of power and injustice I have a veranda and a wee broon sofa for one that cost £35.

My god the social worker is the embodiement of some anciet soul devouring demon.


all though probably not in the literal baby eating sense.
I hope.

I do my best but it isn't long before someone says something that makes my heckles rise like a sleeping dog someone has stood on. These assumptions, about whats right and wrong, real and unreal are the cream filling in a shit pie. It might look the part but my nose tells appearances can be deceptive.

Trust your instincts.

I'm a post-colonial, feminist, senstive sex trafficking, child porn and ritual survivor, I think Marx was a pretty clever dude and see gender as a tool for divide and conquer, religion too. Rape is what makes the world go round and the heart of every civilisation.

Everyone is Satan to me.

Ohh time for some hot chocolate and peanut butter toast, maybe a bit of QI.