Poem. Oh No. Dane Cobain. 

​Oh no

I feel like a wad of gum

that’s stuck to the bottom

of a table.
You know,

a little bit like

I was chewed up

and spat back out

and now no-one remembers

I was ever here

In the first place,

like Michael Dukakis 

in the 1988

United States

Presidential Election,

or the seventeenth time

we saw electrons

beneath a microscope.
Oh yes,

I used to taste

like peppermint;

I still do

if you’d care

to taste me.
Memory is a fickle thing,

and time will bring an end

to the people you see

in the street,

like Leonard Cohen

singing Hallelujah,

or Big Sam Allardyce

no longer tying shoelaces

and playing for Bolton.
This is your health,

my friend,

shouting, “Cheers,

salut, nostrovia!”

with a bottle of wine

in your hand.
Oh no,

I need another



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