I’ve been like a mother to you when you got back drunk;
I’ve located poetry websites for you
and downloaded a whole stream of prime poems
from the great mainframe in the sky;
I’ve magicked up invitations to publishers’ parties
and even created that dark Armani tracksuit
so you’d cut the right figure –
but never again!

I’m catching the midnight starship home,
packing into my little red handkerchief
the remains of the Bombay gin
and all your back-up tapes.

You really shouldn’t have said my songs are banal and repetitive
or that my colleague Calliope had a sweet personality.
That was the last straw. Besides which it’s not true.

Things are going to happen inside your head
that will turn your active verbs passive
and invert your vision
not to mention your earnings curve.
As for your computer
I’ve installed a nice little boot-sector virus in it:
within half an hour your hard disc will get wiped
and your motherboard will need replacing – and if
you’ve been lucky enough to get this file open in the first place
you’ll be able to watch it all dis ppeari g
a le ter
at a
ti