Poem: Cunt Hunt

Remember “Cunt
Hunt”, he said.

And he said it
like it was a kick-ass
Beastie Boys song or
a Tarantino flick, or some
must-see TV show from back
in the weekly episodic daze…

but I did remember it.
Remembered it – sadly – so well.

We were having a party. Some guy’s
birthday. And I’d made all these
mixtapes of 80s bangers…

There was beer on the floor and
heads were being held high and it
was all on.

There was just one problem – well, there
was, of course, plenty more. But one
dude was sure there was only (ever)
one issue.

This was the worst sausage-fest of all time.

So to remedy it, or to at least draw the most
attention to the predicament. He started a
low, slow chant.

“Cunt hunt. Cunt Hunt. CUNT HUNT!”

And from a lone voice to a
hideous drunk choir.

“Cunt hunt. Cunt Hunt. CUNT HUNT!”

Someone skulled a pint of vodka and
fell on the floor.

“Cunt hunt. Cunt Hunt. CUNT HUNT!”

Someone pissed his pants – proudly – in
front of everyone.

“Cunt hunt. Cunt Hunt. CUNT HUNT!”

A bottle through the window.
Just: because.

“Cunt hunt. Cunt Hunt. CUNT HUNT!”

Bruce Springsteen’s Born In The USA
cranking in the background…

“Cunt hunt. Cunt Hunt. CUNT HUNT!”

(And you were the only one thinking that song
had been misappropriated before…)

“Cunt hunt. Cunt Hunt. CUNT HUNT!”

Then, like a wolf howling at the top of the pack
he broke up the chant

(“Cunt hunt. Cunt Hunt. CUNT HUNT!”)

To shout: “Some fucking bitches better show
up soon, fucking anything, any fucking cunt
will do, some horrible cunt, just any
cunt – I really don’t care…”

They were braying beneath him, holding him
aloft. This is how bad goes to worse. This is
the fucking pits. This was the house where you
lived…

But just as he’d finished shouting his demands
and the chorus gave it one final sing-song burst:

“Cunt hunt. Cunt Hunt. CUNT HUNT!”

his girlfriend walked in. And wrinkled her nose.
Screwed up her face, whilst turning the other cheek.

The wolf…suddenly sheepish.

“They’re a bad influence honey….”, he
said with a smirk. She nestled in under his
arm – and it seemed both got their wish.

The hunt was over.          They’d each
found what they were looking for.