Issue
#4

July
2009

a poem by Owen Calvert

hair gel

if only the gel that makes yr hair shiny
would do the same for the inside of yr head

instead it covers yr grey matter
with things that don’t matter:

superfluous decadence; each follicle drowning
in the slimy sludge we have chosen to call 'style'

numbing yr skull
and hardening yr hair

polluting yr brain with products that don’t care
no feeling expressed
no heartbeat
no reflection on its master
apart from the engineered light bulb

if it's ever going to rain
a thick river of cum is going to run
down from yr head

next time
wear an umbrella

© Owen Calvert

 printer-friendly