Literary Laxative
 
Having A Movement
Kate

Writing Shite, writing Shite,
It makes me feel
All right.
When the words come on the page
It quietens my internal rage.

Writing Shite, oh lovely Shite,
It summons up my inner light.
I feel like I'm in Paradise
When what I write's not very nice.

Oh Shite, oh Shite, oh shitey Shite,
You bring me such profound delight.
Consonants and vowels
Should flow from one's bowels.
Verbs and word classes
Should fall from our asses.
Syntax and noun phrases
Should exit our brown mazes.

Oh, what a miracle is Shite.
Some people believe in God;
I think that's a load of cod.
When I need repentance
I compose a nonsensical sentence.
When I need inspiration
I take a literary laxative
To cure my creative constipation.

Oh, shitty ditty, shitty ditty,
You're so sweet and you're so pretty.
I want to hold you in my hand
And
Feel all right
With Shite.

 
Shitty Ditty

Shitty Ditty
Kate

Shitty ditty, Shitty shitty,
Pretty witty shitty ditty
Flitty, shitty, ditty . . .
pity,
Shitty shitty shitty ditty.

Weeple warple
Warple weeple
Porple pleepol
Pampole peripopple.

Blippety floppit
Klopp-hopping bonkit,
Crimberling saunfromp
zimmering tonk.

Oh joy, oh joy, oh joy, oh joy,
Oh wonder and love and all things that aren't nasty,
Oh, what a lovely, lovely, beautiful
poem this is.

 
My Bits

My Bits
Kate

My arse is like a daffodil,
It smells as sweet as flowers.
It feels a bit like petals,
And it looks like Stephanie Powers.

My cunt is like a tulip,
Its sweetness hard to place.
You would like it in your garden,
Or even on your face.
(And no.
It doesn't smell of plaice.)

My finger is a useful thing,
I can stick it up or down.
But if I stick it up my arse,
It goes brown.

My tongue is hot and sticky,
And long as long can be.
I'll put it somewhere icky,
Until you want to wee.

I have some cotton panties
That once were white as snow,
But then I had a period
And now they're reddish brown.

Oh, how I love my brassiere,
It keeps my breasts so bright,
And stops them jumping up and down,
And blocking out the light.

Oh, how I love my bra,
It's functional but pretty.
If it wasn't for my lovely bra
My tits would be all shitty.

My cleft is like a valley
In a far-away Welsh town,
Except it's a bit smaller
And more brown.

I like going down the pub
And drinking lots of tipples,
But mainly I stay home and put
Clothes pegs on my nipples.

(.) (.)

 
Leeds this morning . . . Leeds

Leeds
Kate

I know what people think of
When they think of Leeds.
They think of stretching beaches
And a gentle summer breeze.
They think of summer sunshine
And spiky palm trees,
And bronzed and well-toned girlies
In bikinees.

Yes, I know what people think
When they try to picture Leeds.
They think of talking parrots
Munching sunflower seeds,
Of ice-cream and risotto,
And buzzing honey bees,
And happy little children,
And charitable deeds.

Oh, I know what you are thinking
When you're thinking about Leeds,
But I'd like to put you straight now
To put you at your ease.
Unless you're a bit strange,
Or have Alzeimer's disease,
You'll agree that Leeds
Is fucking crap.

Except the Royally*.

The Royally
*The Royal Park Hotel
- the finest outlet of beers and salted peanuts in Leeds.
 
 
June - September 1998
 



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