Visual Poetry of the Achingly Ordinary

I am burdened with,
And consumed by,
Visual poetry.
When the surface is scratched,
Or even just lightly bruised,
My eyelids are stretched,
Far beyond their natural capacity,
In wonderment,
At the terrifying beauty,
That exists,
In the minutia,
Of the achingly ordinary.


Visual Poetry of the Achingly Ordinary


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I rather like the word cunt,

And it puzzles me that you don’t,

I like the shape my mouth makes,

As it rolls out of my throat.
But you find cunt offensive,

Which I don’t understand.

I’m glad I don’t live your life,

It must be really bland.

You think because I have one,

That I can’t say this word,

You really are a fucking cunt,

Your theories are absurd.

You say this to me drunkenly,

As if I’d understand,

But haven’t you ever said face,

Don’t you ever say hand?

I can see this isn’t working,

So I’ll quit while I’m ahead,

Disapear from the pub,

And go back to my bed.

I’ll sleep peacfully tonight,

Thinking about how much of a cunt you are.