Humour

Funny isn’t it. I’m just so funny all of the time and you can’t even deny that, can you? You do though, you always do. You always deny that part of me: that funny part of me. Funny as fuck, funny bunny baby. Breathe in, breathe out and then we end up in a whirl of words doing the hokey cokey because that’s what it’s all about. It’s infuriating, how funny I have to be in order to get your attention. I love you with all of me and you only seem to give me a piece of your heart when I am funny.

What are you laughing at?

Whatever it is you’re not saying.

 

What are you laughing at? We use humour as a replacement tool, a sort of cement to fill a gaping void left by our parents who couldn’t even bare glancing sideways through the mirror at each other, let alone serenade us with stories of train carriages pulling along the dead. It’s better if we just leave it as a small joke over the dinner table. When we’re angry, we’re hyperbolic. So much wasted potential. Coming from empires (mind you, I hate the empire of my ancestors just as much as I hate yours) full to the brim with peacocks. Literal peacocks strutting around the front palace gardens, and the peacocks of our emotions. Story tellers, singers, astrologers, poets, love makers.

Humour