on a shcertain omnipreshent author

A poem I consheived in a fit of grumpinessh lasht night on twitter, after sheeing yet again the ‘look at me’ tweetsh being shircultated by adoring fansh of a particular young fellow-me-lad.

O you, with your pale, rabbity fashe,

o you, looking like an uncooked pashtie minush the egg wash,

o you, writer I cannot eshcape sheeing


O you, whoshe back catalogue conshishtsh of varied offeringsh that

have not taught you to prizhe what you have

but only increashed your ambishion


O you who continuesh to shelf-promote

even though your publishersh are employing a team

to do it for you in far lessh annoying manner..
O you, little boy pershonage,

in your friendly chshecked shirt hiding a milky ribcage unadorned by mushchle,

o you, perennial teenager..


O you, who no doubt mean well,

you who needsh the attenshion of every man woman child monkey pigeon whale lemur tadpole bishon on earth


O you who can shurely afford to take shome time off

from hanging your limp featshuresh and pointy jaw out there

to be admired, you, o you…


O you, you, you blithering too-shmall-and-closhe-together-eyed mashculine oobit of the shouthern landsh,

take yourshelf off, if you pleashe!


That concludesh my poetic rant for the moment.

(No, I won’t identify the shubject for you.)