Cottage Pie

I could feel the rotten cottage pie sitting in my stomach

Wanting to crawl up my pipes into my mouth

Into the hole where I could chuck it up, chuck it out

Get rid of that horrible food that was tepidly warmed

Still sitting in a caked bowl smelling like sweet ketchup and burnt out cigarettes

I wanted to vomit the world out of my eyes

I wanted to be me again

I wanted to stop worrying about the literary ‘scene’ in London

What little there was of real writers left in the city was scaring me

Who is writing the real stuff

Who is writing real words about real life

Not belly aching about shit that is all just shit

The food swam in my stomach mocking me

Mocking me for feeling like shit

Ha ha ing at me because I couldn’t be bothered to heat it properly

And now the onslaught of poisoning threatened me

And that is a feeling I know all too well

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