Moth

Moth
You need to get off
My cloth
And my lightbulb, soon
Because I’m not the moon
And you should’ve been advised
When you got here too soon
That the sky’s
Big, like a sponsord-ised gig
And you’ve been waiting in the wings
To flap your dainty little things
Dry
But don’t cry
As you chew through my vest
ed interests
Coz I
Am as vain as the next guy
On foot rests
Who prefers legs to breasts
And thigh.

I hear your sigh
And just wonder why it’s human nature to objectify
I
Have always preferred the butterfly
And that’s a dry little metaphor
For
Life.
Still at least we can sigh
And then go under the knife
And have the lips of a clown without being pinned down.

In the end nobody loses
We just choose the bruises
Be it the dominant forces resources
Or the freedom fighter’s Kalashnicov…
I don’t care,
I just stare
And hate your constant buzzing

Moth.

A Poem I Can't Remember The Title Of‏

I’d like to broach a subject that my friends find unbearable
It’s my memory…
And it’s fucking terrible. 

Now, it’s nothing to do with laziness or a lack of respect
I listen to all you say, I just
Don’t always recollect. 

It’s a stillness, an illness, like my mind’s been blinded
Yeah I’ll meet you down the pub, I just need to be reminded.

It’s useless, toothless, a mental brick wall
I even forgot the plot of Total Recall. 

Like a manual car without a clutch
Or a Braille sign that says “Do Not Touch”
It’s pointless,
It’s a breeze on the far side of Venus
It’s small and it’s shrivelled,
Like a cold man's penis.
Like an itch on a knee at the London Palladium
My memory’s like a fart in a football stadium.

It’s insignificant, largely irrelevant 
It won't engender jealousy in a clichéd elephant.

I’m not enjoying this toying, it’s annoying as hell
Apparently I wrote this line before, but it doesn’t ring a bell.

My memory is cold, like the old in December 
I would tell you more, but I just can't...um...oh…what’s the word?