Do Dah Day

There are people who smoke their coffee, eat cigarettes, snort beer and throwaway food. Are they ill in the head? Their life tapping out a story. Unknown realities straight out of a comic book. See the girl poet crawl on all fours. I'm going to ride her like a horse. Then feck her and write about it. We all eat ice-cream from the dictator's shoe. It's slightly sweaty but we don't complain. Here, the jails are packed tenfold a dozen. We spend every third weekend there, for fun and games. I cuddle up to Turk 182. I'm his . He's my slave. We'll get wed after the trial. Death Row will be a breeze then, together. See Joey Deacon on Blue Peter. What a good thing he did for England and us mere mortal kids. Us who're crap at football and maths. You missed the net, you spaz. Silly Joey, can't add up. Then there was Ian Dury and his Spasticus Artisticus song. What a classic. Makes my nerves twitch and my feet dance. Got your sexy sister washing my Fiat Panda car. She's wearing her bikini and no bottoms. Look how she moves, each wipe of her sponge turning me on. You can take her after me. Trust me, she's a dirty girl. Worse than your cousin. Let's do them both. We can film it and have a feck party. Oh what joy. We swim in the frozen lake, three miles above sea level. The cold brown water is a joy to behold. As are car size floating icebergs. It's so thrilling, going skinny dipping here. I'd call it night swimming but it's daylight all year round. We pop some speed and we're fine. Our bodies are like Cassie, resistant to life. There was a lady called Zon Zon. She sucked my dock behind the garages after school. Each and every single day. Rain or shine. I compare the memories in my head. From age thirteen to age twenty six. It feels the same. She's more sexier. Our partners allow us this small desire. Daily fun.