(NB. Did you click the fucking link again? How stupid can you be? I want you to listen very carefully. I’m in trouble. I’ve gone to hell and I’m stuck here. I have Judas on speed dial. I can contact the dead. Things are getting crazier. Unless you love decapitation and medieval torture, go away right now. If you do, well today you can open Door No. 5 on your Personal Problem Advent Calendar. I had an endearing thought whilst Satan was carving out my insides. I thought about what my Mother would do. Mothers are, in most cases, the most important relatives you will ever have. My mother is my own personal God in some ways, and that there is no equal or better equivalent. There’s a lot of women out there who need to be killed. Including mothers, too.
Especially the ones who belong to your partners, are as real as the Anti-Christ. For Nana, wherever she is).
I have a fuckload of these.
I have no words for the expulsion.
Do you think my mother knows about my tattoo yet?
If you think you know which mother I am dismembering here,
Give yourselves a round of applause.
But make sure you pay attention.
I am about to peel her face off and slice it with a bread knife.
I am going to spread my words over the skin-loaf like marmalade.
I am going to pluck her lips off her flabby face, and place them on her gravestone.
I wonder if she can carry on gossiping then.
Here lies all the women I can kill.
Tonight I am red.
And my martini is in my hand,
And in my black Cavalli gown I am holding the black dial phone,
I am the Holly Golightly that every Mother wishes she still was.
And I am sobbing, once more.
I have been put on hold by the pearly white gates.
Disciple Peter says to wait.
And I am calling Joyce.
Tonight I am making a deal with she.
How are you? Is paradise everything you ever dreamed of,
Do you not count the pennies anymore?
Nana, poverty is a blessing, when you’re so cut off from the world,
You’re not aware of what you could have.
You’ve never seen the people that I have watched at school,
Swaggering in their new clothes.
Because they can spit £45 at a flimsy shirt from Topshop,
And still look shit.
Nana, tell me something so innately personal
Where the feeling of pain is so real,
You are resurrected from the dead.
And walk the earth again with your soft palms.
And wrinkly elbows.
It is so painful and so real
That your vessels flow with blood once more,
That you can boil potatoes again,
Just like you used to.
You’re going to be thinking for a while, and the line here crackles a little when neither of us talk,
So I’ll kick off with something personal of my own.
My ex’s mother.
She’s a godless woman.
She’s got the worms writhing in her eyeballs.
She speaks and maggots drip from her tongue.
Its this mother who believes she’s superior
Because she purchases her furnishings from Next.
And we all laughed and laughed at that.
Nana, this woman,
She used to shave my hair with stress.
She used to shave my skin in flakes, with unworthiness,
She used to vomit into my mouth, and make it rain pus from my teeth.
She was a godless woman.
Not fit for paradise. Not fit to shake the pearly white gates. Tell Disciple Peter to watch out.
For a fish out of water, I did well for a while.
“She’s very pretty, isn’t she?” she said to her son about me once,
Funny what words can do
When they uppercut the surface of the skin,
The liquid bubbles on the white shirt
Until you are crimson all over.
That is blushing.
It is more violent than simple scarlet fish swelling and swimming in your capillaries.
Well when I blushed,
I bled into my cheeks so hard I committed suicide.
Because I know Mothers.
Protective of their sons and daughters.
Judging. Hard to know.
Their shield has no heart.
This mother was like no other.
She was not fair of face.
She was as real as the Anti-Christ.
I want to bomb that entire family.
She calls my father a terrorist,
Little does she know she’s looking at it.
I’m the one with the words, these bombs, I’m the one that can drop a nuke
On her world and she’ll burst,
And I’ll scatter pieces of her like bird feed.
Nana, what do you do with mothers who love their sons for their own personal gain?
What do you do to women who make their children pursue the wrong careers?
I give you reason.
I don’t give a shit anymore.
I thought that people who I didn’t love were worth it,
And they’re not.
Humans are told to isolate themselves over Instagram
And throw a cloak over their cove of family and selected friends
Even if we are able to make small talk over the shop counter,
Strangers are stranger and we’re so self-conscious it’s all about danger,
So back to Twitter, Generation Y must forever carry on liking Ruby Rose posts.
And my best friend is bugging me like crazy, her introverted bullshit is worthy of me stabbing her in the chin,
Can’t be bothered to have a real conversation,
So when I go home tonight I’m going to condemn these people to hell,
I’ll transform into another soul, revisit the witch in me,
And soon enough I’ll grow horns,
I am the Devil.
That is the thing with women,
With Bolton School, with bitches,
You become a live wire, fizzing like cherryade,
Filled with the belief you’re better than everybody because you owned a Toywatch in Year 7
And soon you’re an atheist who pops drugs at Leeds Festival
And you’re making big mistakes like shagging the guy who wears tweed suits in sixth form…
Nana, I couldn’t stay a virgin till marriage like you.
I wish I had.
I spend up all of my new experiences in youth.
Where I can forget them like kisses.
I know godless women,
Mothers who buy cakes and eat and eat and eat
Until Size 10 is no where within their reach.
Until their son’s girlfriend is so pretty,
That it carves into their heart,
They strip the walls bare and still their wrinkles stain their chests,
The insides of their walls, it stares at them in the mirror,
And their stomachs turn inside out, like cockroaches.
I want to bomb that entire family, Nana.
I am dismembering here Nana, the bleach is in the bathroom.
I can smell her.
I’ve canned her hatred like chicken broth,
And I’m done here, to the blue bin to decompose.
I will never be a good mother!
Nana I’m not going to hell for this.
But I’m going to burn them all,
And I’m going to take them to the cliffs and make them watch their mothers fall
Deep into the ocean.
Break their families like bourbon biscuits.
Break their children like the fast.
I have the night sky on my side, and the Devil’s nodded,
But God’s not turned up to the meeting,
So if you could ask Willy Wonka to slip a gold ticket into heaven for me,
Through a prayer, or maybe through a bowl of Special K,
My soul might be saved, but not hers,
Not my ex’s mother.
Nana put a good word in for me.
God knows I’ll need it.
That she used to plant weeds in her son’s brain,
And they used to grow,
And then he overthrew me because I had those eyes,
I had eyes of a clown,
A mentally-ill patient,
The stuff I’m saying is crazy Nana,
But here me out, because I’m running out of martini here,
And it’s costing me £20 a minute to ring you,
This will be worth it, don’t hang up,
The breeze held you on the day you were buried,
So reunite with it and hold me too.
Hold me forever.
The Anti-Christ is dead.
And I am a horrific young woman.
My own Mother’s eyes are rolling over and over, doing cartwheels in her brain,
She sees me and the dread floods her like cancer,
She is dying when she is seeing me.
Enough of the cruel women Nana,
The adults are even worse,
They’re infected with bitch.
Can you book a Chevy and God to drive me into the bottom of the universe,
Where Jesus is crushing cups of my ex’s mother’s blood with the Devil,
Can you get more saintly than that?
For now I am in swimming pools.
Clear blue and magic.
You can read Voltaire through this water.
She is tossing in her fire,
Meanwhile the blue bin’s got a funky smell.
The chemicals like her decapitated head a lot.
Nana I’ve said my piece,
You’ve had enough thinking time,
If you’re around when I head off to Cornwall, stop by,
Drop me a kiss as I sleep in this scratchy bed.
But we owe each other for all the days of each other’s lives we have missed,
So tell me your biggest pains Nana,
I love you, you remind me of hibiscus flowers in Granada,
And thick gravy, and Youth Dew,
So tell me over this dial phone,
I promise Disciple Peter won’t hear,
Tell me loud and clear,
Your voice filled with glassy tears, let yourself bleed like a grapefruit,
Because it’s your turn now.