Wet shoes.

Round and round and round
and up
and down and down and
back up again and again and again.
And then the same, in a different order.
Front to back, arse over elbow.
Toe over tit.

“Don’t let go, you won’t know what’s hit you kid”

It’ll shake’y’to’y’centre
Discombobulate’y’make’y’feel like a prick.
Leave you ragged, bagged, shagged out
But without the relief of a tag on your toe, quite yet.
And all along unable to recall
which direction’s home.
“Are you ready to feel how it feels to be on your own?”

“What a stupid bleeding question. How the fuck should I know?”

Knock, knock, knockety knock
Knocknocknock at the door.
They answer, finally, cock out.
Piss on your brand new shoes, brand fucking new.
They squelch when you walk, they didn’t before.
One thing that wasn’t broken, and didn’t need fixing.
Smashed to smithereens now.

“Can you post the little pieces through the letterbox before you leave please?”

“Thanks.”

 

 

 

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