Give me back my money, McDonalds

I have deposited your meal in the latrine

I had the fear so bad I thought the gardaí would arrest me

for eating your ‘food’.

Give me back my Saturday night

I want to have stayed in

accumulating genius.

Give me back my charming entrance

I’ll give you back your plámás and your intentions.

I want those chin hairs back

which I plucked to be in your company.

I want you to put those

 bland, vague and charmless statements

back in your mouth.

Put the smoke back in the cigarette.

I want my time back.

I don’t want you digesting mine.

Return the shit on your shoes

to the grass or pavement.

I’ll refund you.

All my make-up is sucked back into tubes.

Come back to me, all my secretions

off my clothes and into my skin and orifices

underwear clean once more.

I left my recovery in a public bathroom

and didn’t flush in case somebody might want it.

I want my conversation back home in my head

waiting to happen.

That moment before I open my mouth

when the magic is still there.

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One thought on “Planet Bulimia

  1. The extrusion of the intrusive self. Folded in on oneself, a fist jugged into a sock until its fisted fingers pinch the tip; then drawn inside out, the forearm slowly. Only the skin will win this gift of worship.

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