Recipe for Change
Take two over-ripe ovaries,
one worn womb,
five consecutive nights of broken sleep
and enough perspiration to make a brand new ocean.
Congratulations – you are now a topographical feature
(or a gatefold concept prog-rock album).
Perhaps you could call that ocean The Sea of WhatTheActualFuck,
or for a more formal, though wildly optimistic, nomenclature:
The Sea of Opportunities.
Add The Sea of Opportunities to five loads of bedding
and mix well with an exhausted yawn.
Quickly add one ounce of oestrogen,
then remove from mixture.
Add another ounce of oestrogen
then extract double that amount.
You are now entering the Emotional Rollercoaster Zone.
Please do not fly off the handle or someone may get hurt.
Stew six pounds of self-esteem and set aside.
Pre-heat oven to Gas Mark Chernobyl.
Begin to wonder if it’s hot in here or if it’s just yo…
tear off clothing with as much elegance as you can muster.
Dredge the flour of confusion over everyday tasks
and stare into middle distance.
Bring pan of baseless resentment to the boil
and simmer for one whole day.
If this process is disturbed, slam two doors
and cry ten fistfuls of hot salted fury.
Start to wonder if it’s hot in here or…
Rip off frock in one zip-splitting button-killing frantic movement.
Replace ruined frock.
If at this stage, the mixture seems a little dry
and mortified, try not to cry.
Add water-based moisture.
Look for the self-esteem you set aside earlier.
It must be SOMEWHERE for Christ’s sake!
Check bloody oven.
Pull off all bloody fucking clothes.
Open every window.
Ignore the cries of the weak.
They can put a bloody jumper on if they’re that cold.
Consider giving up clothing once and for all.
Throw black cohosh, soy, red clover, sage, wild yam and St Johns Wort into the bin
and kick it over for good measure.
Ring GP for HRT.
Delia can fuck off.