Monday, 17 October 2011

Poem 103.

Poem 103.

My fucking audacity,
Knows no bounds,
It can lift a fucker up,
It can shut a poem down.

It allows me to see the person,
Within the person.
My fucking audacity
Is gravy brown.

My sheer fucking audacity,
Makes me equal to you,
Nothing else,
Just my sheer fucking audacity.

It is a dart of pure honesty,
Which pierces through insecurity,
It starves paranoia,
And makes the impossible, possible.

My sheer fucking audacity,
Sounds like the swimming pool,
Tastes like curry,
And smells like petrol.

My working-class audacity,
Has lost people and things along the way,
It carries a stick or a golf club,
And is aware of the facts.

Oh, it feels good,
Until you come along,
And catch me in the moment
Before I can fight back.

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