It's September; cold in the copses, Feverish in the kitchen. The sink clinks and exorcises The china like an Italian sonata. My lips merge into ether At the sky, a periwinkle parallax With the pork lard carbon monoxide Clouds, at drive with suicide. My Buddha hisses at the window, Ripping the tentacles off weedy carrots.
The knives are clever & precise Hiding in their handled shoals Like luminescent Jackanapes Out for the thrill of the ****; The **** of the stake of steak, A 'Cow'ardly act. I wrap the red & dead Into a Beef Wellington. It is not pretty at all; But neither am I.
I'll drink tea to keep my peace, Swallow my spirituality like a pain killer. The teabag sags its straggled string, Scolding me. The pillbox is dead on the edge Of the ornamented kitchen sill A lot like me; sullen and teasing. I wanted to roast my head like a potato If the pudding *** over boiled, A cauldron of sugar and cream Fattening me ugly and crazy.
The weather is miserable; I mustn't lie, It's enough to make any young woman want to die. Stirring my thoughts with the dishes, Trashing potato peels like my wishes. And the stacks and stacks of ****-me pills Surround like troops in their barricade cupboards. I have no allies, Everyone is asleep; I curl up like a fat snail and weep Blackening the words of the miracle-working Priest.