Thursday, 19 August 2010


Now I know what was wrong.

You'd never scratch, you'd never screech, you'd never make a peep, you'd just stand there with your vinyl pants clinging to the back of your shanks trying to spread, to accomodate, and you'd lick the wall thinking:


But humour me, poetic licence and all? Try to tell me to piss off little wanker, try to push me off ya.

You were born helpless.


  1. woah
    scratch screech peep push
    vinyl pants do cling cuz of sweat like your legs are trapped in body bags. cut off a lock of your hair and make him eat it next time.
    :P xxxxxxxxxx forever

  2. ugh - don't ^

    I like yr poetry puppy. being aloof an all - you know, like barely registering *it* - is that helpless?

    nooo - like

    "fight me off"
    "do you mind if I read?"


  3. Plexus:what a brilliant idea, the one with the hair, or maybe the other way round.

    Changeling:i don't know if it's poetry, maybe it's just a big yawn.Thanx and hopeless, not registering *it* is trying to survive by being dead.I think.I dunno.What d u reckon?

    Love to both of ya.

  4. We were all born helpless, some grow out of it, only to reacquire it later. Some need the helpless to feel powerful. Power, what an illusion that is. Again, wonderful stuff Dogboy, provocative as ever.