by Nick Gisburne
I’m switching off, from you, from what you think,
Amused by such a superficial mind.
I party. Did I mention that I drink?
Is that the only failure you can find?
A grave could pull more light from life than you.
Is that your slogan - zealot, squeaky clean?
I’m not a crazy junkie, high on glue,
Or shooting strange psychotics up my spleen.
I may have a made a vomit pond, or three.
If that is what will send me into Hell,
I’d rather sleep, unconscious, in my pee,
Than wake to sniff your bleak, self-righteous smell.
You’re twenty, but you’re pushing ninety-five.
The rage alone is keeping you alive.
