Bad

Bad

I want to start a Bad Poets’ Society
I want to revel in rotten rhymes and exult in awful alliteration
I want to celebrate vile villanelles and sonnets that don’t scan
I want the Mothers’ Day card to be the height of art

I want to create a Bad Film Club
I want to munch popcorn with pals while we adore atrocious acting
And catalogue every continuity error with a midwife’s care
I want broken sound effects and directors who use pen-names out of shame

I want to build a Bad Music Band
I want to glory in slightly rusted strings and semitonally missed chords
I want a dyspraxic drummer and horn sections with leaky valves
I want a singer who lost the key somewhere down the back of the sofa

I want to join a Bad Health Gym
I want weights covered in dust because nobody can be bothered to lift them
I want jelly-belly, zits and digestive distress to be signs of achievement
I want the café to sell nothing but crisps, beer and cream cakes

And I want to not care, to not give a damn

But I can’t
Because I’m me
So, until I’m not and the world turns itself inside-out
I’ll still try to be good.

 

October 2024

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