We've left the building of ourselves
at this familiar stage, I think you know
exactly what I mean: love has turned to rage.
This is for my shitty job, crumbling city life;
it's all your fault when things don't go my way.
I guess I'm pretty pissed at what your eyes have got
to say, a men-and-here-we-go-again assize.
It's true, we need more pelvic thrust.
How was it for you? I'm all shook up.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Doug Gray would be pleased to hear from you.