You know, she said, poetry is not
something that one should normally do.
Who the fuck reads poetry, anyway?
And besides, you're writing poetry
instead of fucking me. So fuck off.
You seriously need to get away from
that black glass-faced laptop and
get a life. Read a book or something.
Fix the squeeking door hinges, I don't
know, pour vinegar and olive oil into
the sink. Cook a lively pasta potpourri.
And what the hell has Sutherland got
to do with any of this, anyway?