Drunkorexia

“Eatin’s Cheatin’” echoes around the office on a Friday afternoon.
Women pick over their naked salads and extra extra light low fat
Philly on Ryvita. The preparations for ‘Rosé o’clock’ are well
under way.
They’ll grumble through the afternoon and suppress the urge
to be
‘naughty’ whenever anyone offers a biscuit, sweet or chocolate.
Fun.

From Drunkorexia: A stupid name, but a serious problem on the Independent blogs. Omitted words: ‘as’ (line 1) and ‘their way’ (4). Submitted by Rishi Dastidar.

All the tattoos I want

I’ve decided that I want a japanese tattoo sleeve
starting at the shoulder
and ending at the wrist.
It will include at least a koi fish,

some kanji, a samurai sword, some nice blue
waves, a pokemon (not sure which yet, but hell maybe I’ll get two),

probably a torii, probably something small
in dedication to yu yu hakusho (not sure what). I don’t have all

the ideas yet but it will at least
be very colorful and with basically no skin color showing. And my back piece

will be dedicated to egyptian mythology;
specifically Horus and Anubis facing each other
and some nice looking egyptian-like images in the background
to bring it all together.

And honestly that’s all the tattoos I want.

A post on the White Morgan Freeman Tumblr, 20 May 2012. Submitted by Ezra.

But if the water becomes deeper still

Positioned in the water in an uncomfortable pose,
afflicted with a relatively high mean density,
suffering from substantially high frictional drag,
and unable to raise and lower its neck
and hence unable to adopt a synchronous gait,
we conclude that giraffes would be very poor swimmers,
and that it might be assumed that they would avoid
this activity if at all possible.

(Testing the flotation dynamics and swimming abilities of giraffes by way of computational analysis)

Goodbye, few things

Top of the list is cupcakes. Does anyone
actually eat this sickly over-iced,
pseudo kitsch, toy food except perhaps
a few girly women who think having
a large shoe collection makes them maverick.

Big black pick up trucks as driven by men
whose default fabric is camouflage. These
swollen testosterone substitutes are
the automotive equivalent
of a liquorice flavoured ribbed condom.

PVC banners, those dingy oblongs
of bad computer graphics tied onto
every suburban pub, roundabout, school.
Usually advertising a singles nite
or fundraising fayre long since past, or worse
still, a carvery. Pop up anything.

The vaguely west coast stubbly check shirted
bloke who features in every phone, computer
and small car ad. You know the one
with scruffy hair and a retro t-shirt
probably designs apps that no one asked for
and fewer people need.

From The Pitiable Impossibility of Debt in the Mind of Someone Shopping, a blog post by the teddy bear Alan Measles. ‘a’ omitted from line 5, first half of the ‘swollen’ line removed and the remainder merged with the following line. Also, ‘that’ changed to ‘who’ and ‘less’ to ‘fewer’ in the last stanza. Submitted by Gabriel Smy.

The moderate Finnish sauna


You should not slap
your neighbours without asking
their permission first.

The sauna is dear to me, almost sacred.
My father was born in one,
and his dying wish was to bathe 
in a sauna one last time.

Summer is the best time to go.
Strike a match, hear
the crackling of dry birch wood
as it is engulfed by the greedy flames,
then sit down on the steps
to ponder the ways of the world
and wait for the sauna to warm up.

Your body sighs with relief when the first
ladleful of water hits the sizzling stove.
The experience is topped off with a dive
into a pure, clear lake.
What else does a human being need?

Both the senryu and main poem are from a piece about saunas by Olli Rehn, the European Commissioner in charge of the Eurozone crisis. Omitted: ‘to the sauna’ (line 5) and ‘sauna’ (lines 9 & 14). Submitted by Gabriel Smy.

We’ve got a different CD player now

We’ve got a different CD player now
and so tonight we are here
listening to the two versions
of this song, which is
about divorce.
If it weren’t so hateful, the song
might almost feel like an attempt
to climb out of the undertow
and get a breath of air:
it’s got recognizable situations,
phrases from real life,
the human touch.
But it sticks its head up
above the self-absorbed,
inward-gazing
morass
only to draw attention
to the immeasurable depth
of it all. This is
a mean thing to do.

(An untitled blog post about Radiohead’s ‘Morning Bell’. Submitted by Haley Patail)