Liker – 7th February 2026

Like a single soggy cornflake left in the bowl, you’re a disappointing ending.
Like a pubic hair on a hotel soap, you’re an intimate violation, offending.
Like a hiccup in a eulogy, you break the moment with awkward spite.
Like a sock perpetually damp from a leaky boot, you’re a stinker, all right!

Like a wet handshake in a steam room, you’re a clammy compromise.
Like a toothache in a novocaine dream, you’re a dull, persistent surprise.
Like the squeak of polystyrene on a filling, you grate on my very nerves.
Like a vibrator in a library, you’re as deeply inappropriate as deserves.

Like the tang of a coin pulled from a wishing well, you’re metallic and tainted with bad taste.
Like a vulture circling a car with a flat tyre, your hope is morbidly misplaced.
Like the fungus on a neglected potted plant, you’re a sign of a deeper rot.
Like a terrible sixties movie remake, you are from the land that time forgot.

Like the last roll of toilet paper, clinging by a perforation, your support is single-ply-thin.
Like a fire alarm test during a nap, you’re a shrill and scheduled ruin.
Like a cigarette break in a downpour, you’re a miserable, fleeting treat.
Like the ambient laugh track on a cancelled sitcom, your joy is canned and obsolete.

Like a participation trophy made of corroded tin, you celebrate an empty try.
Like a pixelated pornographic blur, you’re where the details go to die.
Like a mayfly with seasonal affective disorder, your brief life is also glum.
Like a jellyfish beached and melting into grit, you’re a failed, gelatinous crumb.

Like the X-Ray of a swallowed wedding ring, you’re a costly, internal mistake.
Like a pigeon with a gammy leg, you inspire the pity of a nagging headache.
Like the click of an empty water pistol in a standoff, you’re an anticlimactic threat.
Like the silence after a whoopee cushion at a funeral, you’re a joke no one can forget.

Shared with dVerse Poetics – Similes! This write is very much inspired by John Cooper-Clarke’s Twat, which you must read here.

Today’s Daily Stoic poem:

Fear Is A Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

Succumbed to what was dreaded,
is it only the paranoid who survive?
Self-control keeps us level-headed
and able to continue to thrive.