SESTINA OF STUPIDITY AND A RELAXED ATTITUDE TOWARDS ART
This cunt has taken me a week to write. It’s a piece of coursework for the creative writing part of my degree.
“All I want to do is fuck and look good,”
sighed Life to a burka, ebony and
cleaning white teeth with a coral petal.
“Salmon Rushdie didn’t die for you, whore,”
replied :nickname: Disgrace, with tears
that stained emerald skin the first shade of grey;
the first scene of Shakespeare’s rewritten play,
enticing Classic to reveal mud
under UV lights and Boredom’s beer.
“I deserve to give a fuck!,” heckled Hand,
gripped around an aging cock, before doors
spread distorted legs and welcomed Mental,
skin a pale blue hue and fag of menthol,
with Dadas assaulting the stage, all gay
and dissecting digits, quills calling Floor.
“I want to be naked.” Burka, in hoods
of eyes, cried, blind by crimson seats of sand
to start Scene Two; Hand, the critic, sheared.
Lines bled from greater birds, perverts and fear,
copied by priests of Dead Modern, nasal
in hearing, repeating scenes of dry land.
Actors salvage the fleeing Groundhog Day,
as recorded Scene Two shits in the woods
and shits in the woods, more and more and more,
till Grace is said and youth rejects the spores
of comb overs and bedroom walls, of seers
and Voltaire’s cum greased recital; Love.
“Jesus, I never read your book!” Metal,
encased in cotton, called, under brown hay,
before the crusade descended and sang
from rafters - Metal making her fanned-
self move towards a Burka Worship Core,
battle blooming on stage, without a frayed
naked body insight, house lights rearing
naked choke holds by the lake and nettles;
beat the tempest and temptress back for good.
To a prince’s land, entice flattered fear
in galleries and reject fatal
May days when all the ships have gone for good.
