The Grumpy One

Listless and upset.

You sit clutching the remote control as if pressing the buttons will make things better.

He sits over there horny and haggard from listening to your grumpy taunts.

You’re upset with yourself more than anyone else, but you take it out on him.

He wonders when you’ll come to realise those pork sausages are the culprit.

You’re plagued by atrabilious feelings, which only heightens your cloudy thinking.

He does something out of character and gives you a Stomach Ezzy with water.

You’re so shocked you drink it, even though you’d like to cry into the glass.

He sits by you and waits with his eyes closed, for he feels the shit inside of you.

You feel rotten and put the glass and remote down, then paw his legs and feet.

He smiles and opens his eyes to say, “I see your mood’s improving little cat”.

You want to take the piss, but think better of it. All you can say is, “I’m sorry”.

He says, “Pretty one, that is enough…”

Spatula Pad

The night is young, yet the mansion is ready for the party.
He’s been planning this well & thinking it through all week.
Not one to shy away from the strange & obscene, he thinks of some party tricks.
Ladies are many & boggle his mind, for he sees himself as an urban Casanova.
Unable to settle for one love, he prefers to love in threes or fours.
The time arrives, the guests are bouncing, & the party is swinging about.
Beauty abound & lovely young sights, he thinks of nibbling on chocolates or rose water delights.
Tricks do begin, but it’s the usual tosh, yet he’s thinking about what he can do.
With weird ideas swirling & too much bourbon soaking, he goes to the kitchen & thinks, “What do I have & what do I need to get my perversions on track?”
Looking & looking, he opens the cupboards & draws with swirling thoughts plaguing his mind. Staring about, but not yet drawing attention, he grabs three sturdy blue spatulas.
Like Houdini on crack or DMT, he makes frosting enough for three cakes.
It’s causing some giggles & a few weird looks, but he’s too fucked in the head to agree.
The frosting is made, it tastes like a sweet dream, so he lines the bowls up on the bench.
He waits for the prudes & the boring to leave until ten of the lovelies remain.
Once properly pinched & appropriately plucked to shine bright, he smears frosting all over the nymphs. Once frosted, he moves in & starts to carnally satisfy his longing for sweets.
There’s frosting about & in places unseen, yet he beats his best record of four.
With ten lovely ladies all over him now, he’s a man in a heaven of sorts.