Last time I spoke to my lover,
You remember that account, right?
Turns out there’s about 50, maybe a million, accounts,
Bank ones, personal ones, opinionated ones,
My lover says he “fucking loves nature”
Because “we evolved to have friendships”
And that turned me on so much that I got him to say it again.
Words are like porn to me,
Like the word “loquacious” is the Alexis Texas’s ass equivalent to my pleasure
That I take from writing Personal Problems.
But the only orgasm you’d be capable of understanding is the one
That comes out of your bell end, or vagina, or both,
Tonight I’m proposing a deal to my best friend.
Best friend, tell me something so innately personal
That it cripples your back
Like our trust is crippled, or how our flesh is searing hot
From all our arguments.
Feel that heart beat? It is roasting with rhythm.
It starts with Sankeys Manchester,
And the roar of those pills and your eyes are literally dripping Heidi
From the bass of your pupils.
I’ll kick off with something personal whilst you think.
I don’t really like humans.
I love them.
God they’re so complex and cute,
And you can manipulate them with these little devices called iPhones,
Its metal as fuck.
Most people at school are totally rich and hot, but suck ass,
And then you’ve got the others that aren’t rich but are still hot, but still suck ass,
Then you’ve got ugly people who I think are cheesy but they’re nice,
Then you’ve got clever bitches who have really vile mothers.
And some people have laughs and snorts that are about as funny as cancer.
They taste like illness too. I’ve tried them, its true.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not being insensitive, those people are probably already aware.
I think the rich hot people who suck ass classify me as the ugly cheesy one.
Not sure if I’m nice though.
Haha. Let’s savour that thought.
Savour it like salt and meat and baked camembert and baguettes.
Lately I’ve been dreaming that people in my family are murdering each other,
Dream Dictionary says that death dreams symbolise change, rebirth, transitions in life.
But Mum being strangled in my dreams doesn’t quite fit it to me,
And it must be a crime in some country to explain dreams.
I’m spineless these days, no backbone to the work.
No quick round of publications, come on Editors take a shard of my heart,
It’s up for sale, and there’s enough for everybody,
Even you, Rialto, but I haven’t written you yet…
I’m not “Seamus Heaney” enough.
Personal problems, they suck don’t they?
Like sucking flavourless gum or sucking acid rain or sucking thorns
They’re like different colours, you can taste every kind of sadness in them,
Like how am I really going to live without my Mother holding me like a lamb?
Best friend, make sure your personal problem is fiery,
I want to be able to munch on it like a bag of Walkers.
I want to know its food, its origins, its bacon and BBQ,
Its very scent, make sure your problem packs a punch,
Make sure I know just how fucked up you are,
Tell me if your mother can swing you around the room by your hair,
Confess how useless you are, like fur coats in the rain,
Best friend, I know you want to know more, about Bolton,
About those sick little children,
All humming to the same selective tune, either released by MK or Disclosure,
I think you’re bleeding strobe lights,
Vomiting the Skream, Redlight and Doorly for diarrhoea,
You’re ill, child, so poorly.
Get on over here and let me treat you with the medication of “Calm the Fuck Down”.
Yeah he’s gay. He really is.
Jumped down my throat like a kitten, the fact is his claws are tough too.
I think I hate Tinder.
If I see one more hook up over Tinder I’m going to drag the teenager by the skull
And throw them into a bar to hook up in this marginalised sex-selling society.
Please do it the old-fashioned sexist and fucked up way,
Why are you falling in love with a profile?
YOU HAVE BARE DOLLAR!
This is heavy like an omen, that big globe of darkness,
All the planets twisting to look at my gorgeous moon-eyes,
I’d orbit you any day if I could. I love my beau, the blue-grey planet.
Peacock eyes and peacock fingernails, I know my heart like I know you, best friend,
You’re changing your orbital path, be my little Pluto,
I was always the bigger sister really,
Tell me though does your lover really tell you what you want to hear,
Other women are the enemy, they have the better figures,
But one half smells like bullshit the other smells like Victoria Beckham scented bullshit.
I still have this big broken heart
And I don’t think people can comprehend the magnitude of it,
Somebody left me in the roasting tin for far too long,
And God didn’t help out with the timing. I’m crying cocaine here!
Can you help me figure me out? Like a jigsaw or a game of Cluedo?
Tell me whodunnit,
Tell me your omen,
Tell me something personal Best Friend,
It’s your turn now.