MARY STYLES'S PERFORMANCE POEM

 

What do you call an intelligent, good looking, sensitive man?

A rumour.


 

I married the King of all idiots as summer erupted all dripping green

and hated the insensitive bastard, especially the bit at the base of his penis.


 

He was a lawn mower - hard to get started, emitted noxious fumes and didn't work

half the time.

He used to whistle when sitting on the toilet to help remember which end to wipe.


 

He was a snowstorm because I never knew when he was coming, how long he'd stay

or how many inches I'll get.

He planned for the future by buying two cases of beer instead of one.


 

He needed instant replay on TV sports because after 30 seconds he'd forget

what happened.

He was a laxative that irritated the shit out of me.


 

He asked two friends round once to help him screw in a light bulb and listen to him

bragging about the screwing part.

He thought a gourmet restaurant was a place without a drive-up window.


 

He was a pantyhose because as soon as you try it on it either clings, runs, or doesn't fit

right in the crotch.

The Doctor told me I could never touch anything alcoholic – so I got a divorce


 

If I had one thing to say it would be that I hate the bastard

but I can't move on just yet

as I have to sew together the life he ripped apart.

◄ WORKSHOP POEM

VISIT TO THE AUDIOLOGY CLINIC, 1973 ►

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