Tristan Hazell lives and works in the shadow of the Westway on Portobello Road. What follows is a collection of observations, reviews, social comment, fiction, poetry, art criticism and more. Much of it is fiction and some of it will offend someone somewhere, I hope.

Sunday, September 22, 2013

Excremental verse.

She said write me a poem
anything will do
I don't care if it is doggerel

I said I can't I am stuck
and the baby's eaten my paper
she said: Just write the fucker 
on bog roll

I said it'll be crap
tissue can't hold a rhyme
She said its 
are just the job for your shit

and I've always wanted to wipe my arse on a poem.

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