oedipus is simon is a mummy’s boy, and he wears her belly-knickers when he thinks i don’t see. boiled owls and shoe broth and cornflakes at midnight, my washing machine’s packed up, bloody bosch, botchy bosch, i need a new one but simon won’t let me, and i should run away, but it’s cold out there and there’s nowhere to leave to, nowhere to run.
call me ishmael, call me a mere dalliance, two ships that pass in the night. love is puny and i’m dying of cabin fever in a rush hour train, tens of sweaty people who smell of 9 to 5ness, keep fetishes in their briefcases, their pockets, their eyes. i want to be home with my music.
when i met him he was gorgeous and frightened by my smile, but he married me anyway. then he grew boring and mean, and mean and boring, and i cried and cried, and i haven’t cried like that since my waters broke on my new pink shoes.
skippy. skippy. skippy the bush kangaroo treads in a stinking pile of pessimism while speaking in forked tongues that fry up nicely with an onion and a bamba la bamba. simon doesn’t like my songs but if i could shag music i would never leave the house, and of this i am certain… the power of a named thing is in it’s name. pass the salt please simon
my name is Kitchen and i am a sink.
sorry. i got distracted. maybelline diamond lips pouting at me from the other side of the desk. GIVE ME BACK MY LIPSTICK, BITCH or i’ll harpoon you with my schaeffer.
oo, oo, i just want you, i really love the things that you do
i want to spin a hysteric round and round, right round baby, right round and WHY are there no gregorian chants on MTV? the sky is not a ceiling but a great big eccles cake, those who scream the loudest get the BIGGEST slice of cake, i like cake, lots of cake and i shall eat and eat and eat until i POP, no paracetamol and voddy cocktails for me, no head in the oven or on the track, wrist-slicing is too messy and i faint at the sight of blood, if i fainted i’d think i was dead but then i’d wake up.
never say diet.
pass the beans, please, simon. william morris patterned wallpaper, muted in red lamplight, dimmed, smoothed, suggesting silk stockings, seduction and rumpy-pumpy. a premonition whispers of an ancient ME, hips haunted by the spectre of sex, flaps of wrinkles fluttering in the breeze of the bed-chills, empty folds of dress where my titties used to be. there are many solitudes but they all merge into one and forever with Simon would have been such a long, long time.
what is it like when you start to shake? i’d ask my washing machine if the fucking thing was working, torn knickers, holy knickers, strandy knickers, knickers that my washing machine has ET, i’m going to buy a whirlpool next. insurance money, insurance money, when will i get my insurance money? i shot simon and his face erupted, crimson globs adding a 3D effect to morris’ daubs, brain chunks settling down on the sofa with a tube of pringles, waiting to watch a piece of scalp that was showing on tv. the redness of it all clashed terribly with the carpet.
nasty nasty simon
nasty nasty red dead simon
tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick
so many clocks making such a loud noise.
am I keeping you from something?
answer me this… do combustion engines spontaneously combust or was it just my granny who did that, sitting in her parker knoll one sunday evening watching songs of praise, it said in her will she wanted to be buried not cremated so the undertaker made a solid oak coffin big enough for her slippers, granny-ash in slippers in coffin in hole that was so small we can’t get a headstone to fit. what did thumbelina’s family do for a headstone, she has such a long name?
scooby scooby doo, where are you? my daddy was a sperm donor, he never shagged nobody.
meanwhile, back in the kitchen, the washer-man hasn’t arrived yet and i have kids to collect, shopping to buy and a big fuck-off pile of laundry, not to mention the simon-gooey-gooed curtains and cushion covers and the work to complete that they made me bring home.
i am Dotty the dot. just one little dot in this big mad world of dots, not quite tame enough for the table they make me stand at the wall with my knees in my pocket eating things from a tray, lumpy things fashioned by skeletal hands, crispy on the outside stodgy in the middle, suet dumplings in a thick brown gunk, and what would they say if i were to take off my clothes, leap up onto the table and make my head spin anti-clockwise? would i be sliced into polite portions of indifference and served up with the cheese? why are there no kebabs on the moon?
does coffee have morals? yes.
is there a god? yye..no.
what is psychology? freudmund sig.
did i kill simon? yes.
why are my arms bound so tightly?