6 7

requested by one of my teenagers

My poem has not begun,
yet it shall never end.

It will tie your axons together,
strangle your brain,
make you wish you’d been aborted.

It will disrupt, batter
into submission,
induce
a new moral order,

act
like a carwash on the mind.

It will challenge
every assumption you dared
hold dear.

Wake Now!
from daydream to reality’s
cauchemar.

My poem will improve your eyesight,
give you split ends.

It will cluck, splash, giggle, sizzle, meow
break
your nails.

It should catapult you
to and fro —
in a fifth
[undisclosed]
dimension.

My poem will floss. Sassily snap
in your face
like a weak elastic.
You’ll go ‘Doot de Doot 6 7’ like Skrilla,
backflip like Billy Joel.

It will automagically
remove your nail colour,

sweat your toxins out,
teach you kindness —
the hard way.

It will show you how it’s done.
Spit you out like gum.
Plop you down on the darkside
of the moon for fun.

My poem will intimidate,
shock off your pants
and root you, standing up.

It will very likely splinter and
reassort your DNA,
tickle the back of your throat,
pierce your intellect like
a stick-and-poke
nose test.

My poem plans to elicit
tears, fury, enlightenment.

To break the mould your superego made.

To give you a hickie
somewhere unmentionable.

Then kick you repeatedly
up the bum ’til you birth
the next zeitgeist.

[This poem was written as part of my participation in the Flying Islands Yearlong Nonstop Poetry Workshop, facilitated by Kit Kelen. It was first shared publicly at Poetry at the Pub (Grand Hotel, Newcastle-Mulubinba) on 20 January 2026 (zoom recording time stamp 1h 56m–2h). Cover image from Pexels Free Photos.]