East v West

Dear Rusties,

If there’s one thing I hate more than the poverty of the East end then it’s the distressing sight of West end waifs being trailed up and down Byres Road sucking dirty blankets.  The wee souls hide behind them to save being exposed to copious amount of car fumes while being trailed in and out of second hand shops.

Their wee lungs must be bleeding because they then go home to dusty, book-filled rooms where their parents drink red wine and inhale home-grown dried leaves "usually smoked or eaten to entice euphoria." The parents are probably miserable because they carry around all that venom they suppress towards the unworthy, unemployed, underclass. 

The meek, mannerly mites are then exposed to soaring, excess, wholemeal, gluten-free flour while their mothers, high on ‘the good life’, pound dough whilst making home-made bread. Yes!  It’s definitely much healthier for children to live in the pretentious, smug grid that is the West end.

That’s all for today folks!

Rusty X

Dear Hot Ladies,

I have been away for ages because of my incapacitation through this awful thing called the Mentalpause.  My hair has become positively menopausal.  The other night I got up to go for a pee, that's another thing, and as I walked down the stairs a car passed in the street casting a shadow into my hallway when all of a sudden this thing jumped out at me and then suddenly disappeared. 

I checked the doors and windows,  they were all closed.  Taking the phone with me I very quietly crept under the stairs and phoned the police.  When I heard the car outside I crawled across the to door and when I stood up to open it, there it was, the blasted monster,  right in front of me in the mirror.  It was me all the time.  I was so embarrassed trying to explain it to the police.

My hair looked as if I had spent all night backcombing it, and not in a good way at all.  So now, as well as the hot sweats, dry vagina,  brittle nails, memory loss and the time I lose staring into cuboards and drawers I've become scared of my own flipping shadow.

It's not good.
Rusty    

Pets!

The other day we were having a conversation about pets and I said that I'd never had any when I was a child but that's not strictly true.  I remember my first pet very fondly but have never admitted to it before because I was ashamed. His name was Crawly and he only lived for a couple of hours  and even though he was not around for long I felt he was really a part of me.  In fact, in a way, he was.

I remember the first moment I saw him as if it was yesterday.  I was sitting at my desk imagining I was in Africa and the perspiration was running down my neck.  My seat was right by the window and it was roasting hot and my head felt all hot and itchy so I got tore in and suddenly, there he was, all small and vulnerable under my nail.  I flicked him very carefully onto my jotter and he started to run across the lines towards the middle of the page. At first I thought he had escaped but  there he was all snug in the fold of the paper. 

I tried to move him every now and again with the tip of my pencil to make sure he was still alive but was very careful in case I hurt him.  The teacher was really pleased when I asked if I could take my jotter home to finish off the composition.  I know I closed it over very carefully and held onto the open end of it the whole way to the house but when I got there he was gone and all that was left was a little red dot where my Crawly had been.

I was devastated and told my mum and she pulled me over and sat me between....

Women and The Mental Pause: Marriage

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Hello Poets

'Hello Poetry' is a fabulous site where people share thoughts, recommendations and of course, poetry!
Come along and have some fun, read, write and be merry!

Rusty

Hello Poetry! 

Mental Mum!

From cradle to spots we adore them.

We nurture

We cherish

We care.

And then they become all obnoxious.

‘Bout the time they grow genital hair.

It’s like sharing a house with a crossbreed.

A mixture of monkey and snake.

Now, I think that the caring gene’s left me.

I’ve had just about all I can take!

We’re expected, as mothers, to shower, with unconditional love.

When the shower’s a thing they don’t care for.

He’s in need of an old fashioned scrub!

His room is a dungeon of terror.

I’m frightened just passing the door.

But when I do hear some noise I’m so thankful.

That he’s not lying dead on the floor!  

Video Diary

Video Diary