Wednesday, 13 March 2013
A Snowflake With Your Bullet On It
There's a poem hiding under my fridge,
Like a mouse without a pillow;
Like a fridge magnet within a freezer;
Like Hugo Chavez as his Madame Tussauds lookalike. *
He stands, the mouth open, the fist in the air,
In full flow,
Below the din of the one-cymbal-clapping Terracotta Army.
Poems usually collide Dumdum with my head -
Hollow-point on the third eye,
Like a vat of mustard accidentally pollinated.
I shall boil some noodles the flavour of elastic bands.
Nothing captures the taste of elastic bands quite like bargain-noodles.
Why are children force-fed sprouts at Christmastime?
It's their parents' sweet revenge,
As the choking cash cows' offspring purge, splurge, sob and vent..
The marbles spin in the liquidiser.
A butterfly's wings wilt, cooked in the marrow of a smog-lined sun.
A California yoga-philistine applies to copyright the design of every snowflake.
* Madame Tussaud's is now the more funky Madame Tussauds.