I’m leafing through the gardening magazine

After gardening magazine

In the waiting room

Until my eyes lock and zoom

On the one thing I’ve been looking for

Casually my greasy paw slides over

Making sure no one’s watching

I make the snatch, good and clean

And casually I put on my lap

A women’s magazine

Waiting rooms are the only chance I get

For a vague insight into the female mind

And I admit

It’s an addiction

 I need my hit

Flicking through problem pages, fascinated

And at the same time thinking:

“Do women actually read this shit?”

Then watching Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp

Swim dimly into my memory

And feel a twinge of jealousy

As I rub a guilty hand over my beer belly

Knowing that it cost more than going to the gym

Then I understand how detachment from your own body

And fantasy about an imagined ideal

Is necessary in order to feel

Something close to happiness

In a world where we’re made to feel dissatisifed

Because we’re not beautiful

But fuck that

It’s time to take a time out

So guys hide behind

FHM’s brazen brawn and lies

Allies in a protest against progress

Because it’ll mean they’ll have to rely

On their personalities for a change

And girls hide behind

An obsession over not eating too many pies

But I love a woman who loves her food with a passion

And devours life too because she knows it’s on ration

Because she’ll make me see that we’re all able

To refuse what’s been put on the table

 

 

A war’s been started

Masquerading as a game

Priorities getting warped

As we’re taught that the opposite sex

Is an animal to be caught

And tamed

Our emotions are reigned in

And smothered by the din

Of their disguised battle cry

And here’s mine:

Dear Deadrie

Why don’t you just fuck off and die?

Because I’m fucking bored of the goss

Smothered in gloss

And all the made up stories about people shagging their boss

It’s cost us a massive loss

And the uncrossable chasm you’ve help manufacture

Has left us as fractured in this age

As trampled down problem page

or Adam’s ribcage

We’re left alone,  groping in the dark

For the tissue and the remote

As the vinegar stroke smote

The smoke that those sprawled, moaning actors

Caused in our loins

As we try  kind of sex

That might make us connected and joined

RIP Ballard

You warned us where we were headed

Because we’ve been divided

And sold

And told it’s our fault

From a vault of holy books and

Being scared into how to look

So let’s crank up Bikini Kill

Set light to that magazine subscription bill

And take those pages

Of the self-appointed sages

And build a huge fucking bonfire

A funeral pyre on the high street

Where we can dance and drink and fuck to an equal beat