Tuesday, July 01, 2008

Tragedy does not make you a good poet

there is some story in the news today about a woman who moved to the country to avoid the 'rage' of sydney (admittedly, her kids were murdered by a raged-up axe-murderer)... and can now do things she has always wanted to do like write poetry, and wave at fellow motorists without being hacked to death by some rage-a-holic with a pickaxe...fucken Sydney..this however is what she comes up with:

My Lost, Black Silky Knickers

One day I went shopping.
In all the shops I spied,
looking for knickers - black silky ones.
Lo and behold, in the second shop I tried,
there did I find
my black, silky knickers.
They went everywhere with me,
to college, to the shops,
I couldn't imagine going anywhere without them,
they really were tops.
But alas, one day I could not find
my black silky, knickers.
"Oh no!" I cried. "Where are they?
Where could they possibly go?"
I searched for my black, silky knickers.
I searched high and low,
Unfortunately I did not find my black, silky knickers.
I miss my dear little knickers,
they were so soft (and black) and silky


If someone stabbed my kids to death I would be writing something a bit more passive aggressive than a poem about underpants

Stabbing in the Park on Sunday.

Going to work is hard, it makes me want to cry,
When I sit in a dark dingy dungeon all day, and watch the world go by.
Only one thing can shed light, in my office of gloom,
Is knowing that if I ever meet you in the park, i'll fucking stab the shit out of you

She also wants to write a novel, I really hope it's called "Revenge in Cowra"

Chapter 1: how to remove a mans testicles with dental floss and a rusty knife.

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