Did you never receive the telegram
from the Queen’s lieutenant:
Please stop. Stop
Meaningless metaphor turned
every creative soul into whore(s)
of your attention seeking word-cradle.
Let me pimp you out
to the lowest bidder
In the way silence enters an emptying room,
even small and spoilt children
have self-awareness to read the room
I wrote a love song for my chemo bride
‘cos I didn’t wish my words
to nestle between your constant drivel
Love becomes as vernacular as cock rot
how could anyone possibly empathise?










