Crywank & No Fat Chicks by Alex Creece
Crywank
Chafe me on the stale, endless masturbation
of my sanities lapsed—
this tired, tearjerked
exhaustism.
Find me in a litterbox left to fester,
bare hands grappling with prolapsed pestilence.
Forge me from hypnotised hypomania,
toilet-bent and toxoplasmic.
Fix me,
fix me,
fuck you.
Angry milk sours in my stomach,
vitriol churned veiny cheese.
A sudden delicacy in diarrhoea.
Sex and cheese together, always,
because they both curdle,
plus wine, because
it bleeds.
We all know blood is milk with a vengeance,
and sex: just veiny diarrhoea, tapeworms entangled.
Thank you saving my shit
so I can breathe, and sleep,
and suffer
in sugar-coated skidmarks.
But I have lost it—
my shit.
I have lost it,
again.
No Fat Chicks
Cellulite as a syndrome
Is a myth
But of course
Trusty science only matters
When it's used to justify belonging beneath the heel
Of his
Biological boot
Remember your Cosmo tips, ladies
You cannot be Synthetic
Silicon
Or Spruced
As long as you naturally look it
You don't need to wear so much makeup
You just need to
Not need it
In the first place
Men are simple creatures
All they want is
A body cryogenically frozen in time
A mind that does not challenge their own
And enough validation to remain convinced of the fact that
They are better than you
You are sweet and naïve and soft
And you will ruin
run the world if he lets you forget it
Foolish girl
Mysterious and mythical
Mystically
Inhuman
Don’t be so uptight
His dream girl isn't afraid to eat
And then vomit into the neighbour’s trashcan after bedtime
You will learn to love it
Pretending you don't shit when he forgets to flush his
How charmingly he chokes you of identity
And during sex that ends when he
Says
So
You’re so needy
He smirks when you ask him for a ride home
After texting you all night
Are there guys there
Are you drinking
Who are you with
You’re nothing without me
But he means well
Of course
It's not his fault
It’s just his reptilian brain
That makes him such a fucking snake
His heart is in the right place
In the middle of his chest
So why don’t you just reach
In
Sometime
And eat it
Imagine everything that he loves
And then bleed on it
Chunky raspberry jam of your ancestors
On his
Morning waffles
And when he gets so drunk he annihilates you in your sleep
He'll say sorry
And with the justice system he'll kiss and make up
Just in time to
Etch the numbers on your tombstone as
Bust:
Waist:
Hips:
Find more from Alex on her website, Facebook page, Twitter and Instagram. A bonus poem from her will be up on the Baby Teeth Patreon on March 11th!
Executive Producers
Sue White
Daniel Henson
