Saturday, March 30, 2019

To the Get Hawking and Spitting in the Next Stall

Fuck you and your slam door, hawk and splash.
I've been through the hands of the Christian Brothers
And their their open air urinals,
Burnt soup, shorts and vaulting horses,
The fish-reeking boy in the next desk,
Canes crashing palms and wrists all day.
So fuck you and your door slam.

I bet you're one of those guys who
Tries to crush the other's hand when they shake,
Who puts a foot up on a colleague's desk or
Manspreads like a spatchcocked bullock on the Tube,
Unaware that all around silently envisage ways
To cave your face in where you sit.

There was one like you in the primary,
Whose game was to kick boys in the balls
At random.
Maybe it was you, and maybe you remember
I splatted you over my back with some instinctive judo.
You were too heavy, landed hard, face first, flat.
You never bothered me after that.

All you door slammers, desk footers,
Manspreaders, tailgaters, hand crushers,
Balls kickers, street spitters, dirty lookers,
Dog chokers and fried chicken chuckers,
Can go straight to hell.

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