The Onion Field


Hey non-existent people – well it must’ve been all of 5 seconds since I last spewed my bilious ruminations all over you, but don’t worry, I’m back!

Here’s a new poem about a time when I had been on anti-depressants for a while and realised I could no longer cry. Your basic typical Disney fare.

Now being a little sissy bitch who likes to pamper himself thrice weekly in a pink swan-shaped bathtub lined with aromatherapy tealights, epilating, binging on Häagen-Dazs, and wailing at Titanic; this posed a huge problem for me.

So I shunned the smelly pills and chose to be a forlorn milksop for the rest of my natural life instead.

Enjoy! (err that suddenly sounds creepy and has the opposite effect – so don’t enjoy!)…


The Onion Field

I’m running through the onion field,
my woes a liquid load to yield,
they make me cry when they are peeled.

I came to claim a natural high,
the pills I take won’t let me cry,
that’s creepy even for a guy.

They’ve stuck a spanner in the gears,
that turn the taps that make the tears.
It sucks when science interferes!

So I came here to take them back.
I crammed sad pictures in my pack.
I’ll browse and breathe until I crack.

p.s. for the uninitiated, “epilating” is a chick term for pleasuring yourself with a clockwork cucumber. I like to think I’m in touch with my feminine side.


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