Caligula On:

On Women

We already know that men have breasts,
that the testes are fumbled ovaries
and cocks bulbous clits - not steadfast masts -
that we're all wombed up to differing degrees.

But further still, duvets are wild and well fed
labia, ferris wheels are areola,
as are the hubcaps on an eighteen-wheeler,
the plates on your drainer, the hobs where you've fried
so many eggs. Your curtains are a hymen,
the M1's a runamuck fallopian tube,
fuseboxes g-spots, flyovers urb-
-an montes veneris. The blueprint is woman,
and woman's the end product too. Think of plunge pools,
subsea volcanoes, figs, nebulae, black holes.

On Morality

We should be easier on ourselves. Made-up
characters get off so much more lightly.

Childish lunacy's suffered as 'madcap
antics' and brusqueness is somehow inately
commanding. We'd think that great sleuth a big dick,
that gent-thief a shitstain, that man of few words
a social cripple - why can't we say, "Kids,
it's rough out there", "Don't even try it, slick"
or "I'll take my chances" without looking foolish?

We should be easier on ourselves. We should
eulogise keenly, trudge through a ghoulash
of fog just to be by ourselves, go nomad,
rip warning notices off our windscreens,
combust into song in the courts, banks and tubetrains.