I hate Fridays because they ruin my Thursdays thinking about them.
Here's my poem:
EGG
It's not as good, this exciting
canal in which my daughter films
her slasher flick: badly acted echoes
of murderous intent keep me up all night
in my fucking expensive bed. We're
breaking out of this habitat, it's okay also
if we fall out of trees, drunk on our juices,
we're safe. I am a koala. You know the rest
of that joke, I'm busy searching for the case
for this DVD, a pointless artistic jaunt
with everyone being all french, bending
their arms in that european, slightly annoying
way.
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