I’m still trying to quit smoking and can’t think and nothing seems inspiring–so here’s some special guest poetry from John Osborne. He’s funny, and English, and writes funny English people poems. This one’s about the stifling predictability of middle class life and rampant domestic terrorism. You can read more of his sweet-ass poetry, or buy one of his many books here. Do it soon, because he’s pretty much too famous to talk to you now, and that’s only going to get worse.
p.s. At first I thought this was a poem about men wearing Turkish pastries. But that’s Baklavas. There’s a difference. Anyway, fucking read it. It’s a good fucking poem.
by John Osborne
You shout crossword clues
while I iron work shirts.
and and there’s a stack of DVDs we ordered on Amazon
we still haven’t watched.
and Stuart Maconie is on the radio,
you like him
and we’ve skyplus’d The Apprentice
and it’s only two weeks until we go to New York
and the chicken is nearly roasted
and our friends will be here soon
and we’ve a case of red wine to get through
and a massive Toblerone
and Stuart Maconie has just played Whippin’ Picadilly
and if it’s still sunny at eight o’clock
we can drink gin and tonic in the garden
and tell everyone that Katie called this morning
to say she’s getting married in September
but as I sit waiting for our guests to arrive
I can’t help but look at the patio doors,
I imagine an elbow through the glass,
a man holding a gun in your mouth
as I am told to fill a bag with valuables.