Heaven forbid what the poet has written about me.
'Does it matter?'
What does matter?
'Get in first, and get in hard.'
I'm doing that.
Trust me, I'm doing that.
The problem with Gartland, he believes this shit.
'But when someone else sends him up, he's the first to show snowflake sensibilities.
Gartland the sensitive poet.
I sometimes feel he's out of touch.
'He's the master of catechisms.'
'If you are going to use that word, at least know how to pronounce it.'
See what I mean, Gartland can't help himself.
You hoard a hermit's arrogance
alone with cats and squalor
and your compromised
integrity is dumb.
And numb for hours
each day you chain-smoke
and do PR for the maoists,
first you sanitise the regime,
then obsessionally strum.
A groupie’s wit
still doubtless parodies
the joke you have become.
